Back last century when I was a university student, I somewhat eagerly – or stupidly, if you listen to my mother – signed up for the campus drama society.

Within minutes it became clear I had as much acting talent as an unpainted door. So I found myself in the wardrobe department for a play about the Salem witch trials called The Crucible by Arthur Miller (who, incidentally, is most famous for being married to Marilyn Monroe). What a disaster!

A Bernina and I are not a match made in heaven. I left the 15 costumes I was responsible for to the last minute, and poor Mum had to help create them from calico and sacking the night before. When the curtains rose, more luck than 'break a leg' was needed as my stitches had the audience in, well, stitches.

And break a leg was just the phrase that crossed my mind this week when I pulled my son's bedroom window shut before heading for work. However, the loud cracking sound wasn't my bones, but window from the glass that smashed – and somehow got embedded in my foot.