Sunday morning, a windswept football pitch in Eccleshill, where I am watching my son and his team-mates limber up before not one but two football matches, both of which they will go on to lose.

I receive a phone call from a number I don’t recognise, and ignore it thinking that it is too early in the day to be telling someone that I don’t wish to reclaim PPI. But a message is left and it turns out to be a plea for help.

The organiser of a literary festival in a neighbouring town has an event planned featuring two prominent authors, but one of them has come down with a nasty illness. She wonders if I would possibly fill in.

Now, these two authors are people who have written lots of books that have done really rather well. I suggest that people who have paid money to turn up and watch them speak might be a bit non-plussed to see me there.

However, never one to turn down a chance to stand up in a room and talk about myself, I agree to go along, and within four hours am pulling up outside a rather swish golf club which is the venue for what I learn is a literary afternoon tea.

What this means is that people will eat sandwiches with no crusts, cake and drink tea, while listening to the Big Name Author and myself talking about writing.

Between watching my son’s team beaten twice and finding a pair of trousers that aren’t jeans, I haven’t had a huge amount of time to prepare. In fact, I’ve had precisely no time to prepare. I am seated on the top table and one of the organisers asks me what I’m going to talk about.

“I thought I’d just wing it,” I say, realising that this could be a very, very bad idea.

What’s more, I’ve also learned that this event is being held in association with the local Women’s Institute. I text my wife with this information in something of a panic.

“Oh God,” she texts back. “Behave yourself.”

I’m not quite sure what she expects me to do – strip off while reciting Bernard Manning jokes, perhaps? But I have more pressing concerns. Five minutes before the event is due to start, the Big Name Author has not yet arrived, the organiser tells me.

There is some joke about me doing a double turn. I begin to feel a bit faint as I scan the room – there are more than a hundred people in here, rattling tea-cups and expecting to be entertained in some manner.

Fortunately, Big Name Author arrives not too long into the proceedings and I stand up to do my bit. And the funny thing is, it seems to go down quite well.

They laugh in all the right places. There is a vigorous round of applause, and several sensible questions. I slump into my seat and let Big Name Author stand up and do it properly – she has prepared notes and everything.

All in all, a good day. I still think we were robbed at the football, mind.