Sometimes, I just wish I could say no. But yet again I’ve found myself diarising something I might regret without really considering the consequences. It’s potentially worse than the time I went kayaking down an alligator-riddled swamp in North Carolina with my best friend, Caz. At one point, we had to clamber out of our canoes, scale a fallen tree and gently ease back in again, as the swish and faint bark of reptiles edged nearer. It took two crates of Budweiser and forty Marlborough Lights to win Caz round again after that incident. 

It might even be as scary as the moment I found myself in a grammar school art cupboard, completely naked, about to step out and pose for a life drawing class. But at least that wasn’t life threatening. Unless you count the likelihood of dying from embarrassment. 

This time, I’m walking over hot coals as part of a world record attempt. But there’s a twist. I’m doing it to help out my friend George, who needs crutches to walk, following a near-fatal car accident twenty years ago. So not only will I have the weight of my own body pressing into the blistering embers, but I’m going to be propping up George from the left along the way. I fear my soles will be seared, but my corns might be cured. 

I couldn’t really say no, though, could I? She’s doing it for charity and the person who was meant to be her left crutch had to pull out (I wonder why?). So last Thursday, within an hour of her asking if I’d step-in, she’d got my waiver forms sent off, booked us in for the training session and plastered it all over Facebook. So there’s no backing out now.  

I’ve been trying to convince myself that it could be worse, but comments I’ve read from people who’ve done it before take me back to the horror of first-time labour, when I realised that all the mums before me were absolutely bloody well lying when they said it didn’t hurt and that it was all rather empowering. 

There are longer, more horrific charity challenges out there, so I’m relieved she hadn’t signed up for a polar expedition or paralympic ultra-marathon. And I really don’t think I could have faced a bush-tucker challenge because my gag reflex is fierce. I only need to catch a whiff of a nappy sack at fifty paces and I’m heaving into my handbag. 

But the date is set and a familiar sense of foreboding has descended. My panic-dreams are resurfacing in the form of examination halls with locked doors, dark alleyways full of rusty monsters (yeah, I know, that one’s a bit weird) and nowhere to have a wee on a sinking ship. It’ll be fine though, won’t it? It’s just mind over matter, I’m told. And as far as I’m aware, nobody’s died doing a charity firewalk. 

So best foot forward and ice packs at the ready. When will I learn?