There is a guest waiting area at BBC Radio 4's Woman's Hour but I can't sit down in any of the comfy looking chairs because I am afraid if I do my tights will slide down to my ankles. I bought new tights especially for the occasion from a well known Irish department store, which makes their sudden slidiness even more frustrating.
When the lovely young woman on work experience shepherds me to the bathroom for a rigorous pre-broadcast hoik of the tights, I get lost on the way back to the waiting area. Even Mariella Frostrupp's soothing tones – she's on before Woman's Hour – can't soothe me. Every time I think about sitting opposite Dame Jenni Murray I get these disturbing palpitations and my tights slide a bit lower. I always wondered why people said they'd had "way too much excitement for one day". Now I know, and it's not even 10am.
I am in London with my friend Natasha Fennell. We wrote a book called The Daughterhood, about the good, the bad and the guilty of daughter-mother relationships. I thought it was a grand book when we'd finished it, but then Woman's Hour rang and said they wanted us to come to their BBC Radio 4 studio to have a chat about it, which makes me think it must be more than grand. It must be a work of complete and utter staggering genius, otherwise a programme like Woman's Hour wouldn't be a bit interested. That Booker crowd will be on the phone next. That, or Loose Women.
I meet my brother who lives in London the night before. Peter has never heard of Woman's Hour. I explain it to him. (Millions of listeners. The creme de la creme of broadcasting. Jenni Murray = legend. It's Woman's Hour!!!) He still doesn't understand why I'm permanently breathless in anticipation.
I ask him to tell me someone he admires. "Roger Federer, " he says. "So imagine you were trying to do business with Roger Federer. Like, you've business to do with him, but you are also meeting a sporting legend at the same time. You are worried you are going to mess up your business pitch, but on the other hand you are just thrilled to be in his orbit."
He gets it a bit more now. But the truth is only my friends who listen religiously to Woman's Hour understand. They've been texting all morning. Texts that consist mostly of "Argggghhh! Woman's Hour!!!!!". They understand why I have to carry tissues at all times. (My palms are so slippery with sweat I take ages to do our selfie in front of the Woman's Hour sign).
The air is different, more erudite, in the corridors of Woman's Hour. The desks are all scarily tidy. Women with the coolest short grey haircuts flit around from filing cabinet to desk in spotless runners and beautifully cut chinos. The atmosphere is tinged with excellence. Nobody else looks as though their tights are making a dash for their ankles.
The actual bit where we meet Jenni Murray is a lovely blur, but she was as wonderful as we’d hoped. And I don’t have a “mental blank” or forget my own name, both of which were a genuine concern.
As we float out of the BBC on a cloud of joy, I notice someone familiar walking behind me. It's only flipping Richard Curtis. Except when I see him I don't see Richard Curtis, I see his creations, especially Blackadder. And I don't care what anyone says about Love, Actually, I love it, actually. And he did Four Weddings and A Funeral and he invented Comic Relief. I've got to do something. But what?
"I'll get a selfie with him," I think. I mumble to him about all the joy he's brought to my life over the years and he says that's a lovely thing to say and then we get a photo together and I chance my arm and ask will he come on my Irish Times podcast next time he's in Dublin.
“I’m in Dublin a bit, as it happens,” he says. “I’ve got friends there”. “Which friends?” I ask. (What a day I’m having, I think to myself. Bantering with Jenni Murray one minute and Richard Curtis the next.) “The Gleesons,” he says. “Oh, and the Hewsons.”
“Nice friends to have,” I say to Richard Curtis. “You’ve got both sides of the Liffey covered there.” Richard Curtis smiles benignly at me and then he’s gone and I’m left staring up at the gleaming BBC building in the sunshine feeling as though anything in the whole world is possible. Afterwards I buy tights from Boots and put them on in the toilet in McDonald’s because one thing is clear: I’ve had way, and I mean way, too much excitement for one day. roisin@irishtimes.com