I hastily agreed to appear on Radio 4's Any Questions during a phone call that came when my dog was hanging "playfully" off the arm of my jumper and my lunch was burning in the oven. It wasn't until I received the show details by e-mail (Jonathan Dimbleby not Nicholas Parsons, Stephen Byers not Jeremy Hardy) that I realised I wouldn't be on Just A Minute or I'm Sorry, I Haven't A Clue, after all.
Charlie Whelan offered me some debating tips, over coffee at Bush House. With a twinkle in his beady eyes and froth on his chin, he giggled: "Ooh, Lauren. You shouldn't have agreed to do a show like that. It's the worst thing I've ever done. No, take that back. Newsnight is marginally worse." He suggested my chance of survival hinged on verbally nailing Byers by obtaining a Downing Street brief on his future plans. A typical Whelanesque plot, but sadly, not an option for me.
With less than a week to go, I cornered the veteran performer Tony Benn at the New Statesman's big bash in Brighton. By this stage, I was hoping for a cunning plan involving no more than 20 minutes' homework. "Well," he began, "when I first appeared on the show in 1951 . . . " Tony Benn's preparations for media debates (I now know) are the stuff of legend. The week of the show, he reads "the heavies" from cover to cover. On the day of the broadcast, he reads all the tabloids as well, "just to be sure". This sort of work is part of my regular routine, so sipping water and straining to hear above the hundreds of drunken voices, I began to relax. Then came the bombshell. "Most importantly of all," he added, "I write a list of around 150 related questions to prepare my mind. They always come up, too."
A hundred and fifty questions! When would I sleep, eat or watch Frasier? He kindly patted my trembling shoulder. "Don't worry," he said, before being whisked away by a female fan to settle the debate on tea-bags versus teapot, once and for all.
Taking my seat next to Stephen Byers, on the stage at St Christopher's school, Letchworth, my plan was simple: to say what I believed, give the MPs stick, and back it up with facts on recent developments. Dimbleby gave me such a flattering introduction that my calm nearly deserted me. That had not been part of my plan. "Lauren Booth has a reputation for speaking her mind," he cooed.
Byers smiled kindly, and whispered in my ear: "Good luck. You'll be fine."
Then we were live on air. As Iain Duncan Smith got himself into a froth over Europe, Byers was sneakily scribbling away. I peered over his shoulder. He was drawing precise little boxes and then colouring them in. I glimpsed his notes, too. He hadn't prepared hundreds of questions and answers. All he had in front of him were very neatly written headings such as "Saying Sorry", "Fuel" and, of course, "Pensions".
A lady stood up and asked us if we thought society was more or less civilised, in the light of the panic-buying during the fuel blockades. Looking around the audience, I was overcome by the coarse need to please them and win their love. I went for the cheapest shot I could manage: "The police were more civilised with this well-dressed rabble than they ever were with the striking miners," I stormed. Then came the applause. I was Ann Widdecombe telling the blue rinses that tolerance of marijuana is killing their Yorkshire terriers. I was William Hague wanting to be a "lad". I was Tony Blair claiming to prefer chips to chorizo. I was a populist, and it felt far too good.
