Yesterday, during an email exchange with my old boss, he reminded me of a hilarious ‘incident’ he said he would never forget.

A couple of years ago I organised a business breakfast at the Savile Club in Mayfair to raise money for the charity I was working for at the time.

Over 100 business men, and far fewer business women, gathered for a full English to network whilst supporting the cause.

The guest speaker was an octogenarian erstwhile Arsenal physio who entertained guests with his reflections of his time at the club treating the players. At least 80% of the guests were riveted Arsenal supporters. So far so good.

We agreed in advance that he would speak for a maximum of 15 minutes as we were on a tight schedule. 25 minutes in, there was palpable fidgety restlessness from the guests. One or two got up and left.

Several attempts at discreet gesticulation failed to catch his eye. He wasn’t even close to winding up. It was time for drastic action to cut him off.

In desperation, I resorted to kneeling on all fours and crawled to where he stood at the lectern. My head at this point was level with his crotch. He looked down at me and said loudly into the microphone “is everything all right down there, dear?”

Despite my notoriously filthy mind, I was so focused on interrupting his incessant rambling that it didn’t occur to me how comedic this looked. Any guests who could see me, including my husband, were laughing hysterically. I’m pretty sure that my face went scarlet as I realised how suggestive my rescue mission appeared to the onlookers.

I had completely forgotten about this until my CEO reminded me of it yesterday. Probably because it was without doubt my most embarrassing moment ever. I had subconsciously wiped the trauma from my memory bank.

Over the years I have organised at least 20 fundraising events for a variety of charities. Sometimes things happened which threw a spanner in the works. However, this particular SNAFU was the worst of all of them, by a country mile.