"My daughter had found a black marker pen and drawn a beard all over her face" writes Kat Orman

Let me set the scene. We were casually driving from Oxford on the A44 the other day heading back to Chipping Norton. Darkness had descended but there was no stopping the fit beings of Yarnton, who had presumably rushed home from a hard day’s work to don some very short bottom-hugging shorts and running shoes to push their bodies to the limit and get their heart rates up. Nothing but respect from my camp. As I noticed one such scantily-clad male running on the roadside, the background music in the car was courtesy of Radio 4, my husband Simon’s choice.

He commented on a piece of Beethoven composed music that seeped through the car speakers: “Is that a clarinet?” he asked. As a former liquorice stick player myself I replied: “Yes.” Then I paused and added: “Such a lovely tone.”

Simon asked: “What the jogging man’s legs or the clarinet?”

Need I even quantify that comment! n We do spend a large portion of leisure time visiting the nooks and crannies of Oxfordshire and the Cotswolds, taking in the wealth of history.

However on a Sunday we have to be clear of chores and children for Top Gear at 8pm.

It’s my husband’s ritual, whether I like it or not. When Betsy was first born, a year ago, Simon insisted on a slightly unhealthy dose of TG repeats. So much so that I joked if our daughter heard Jeremy Clarkson’s voice any more she would think he was her father. Simon was unfortunately encouraged and inspired in recent years by Clarkson, May and “The Little One” to take his then clapped out four-wheel drive vehicle off-roading. He had travelled down to Hampshire on business and before making his way back to Oxfordshire had spied a suitable bit of off-roading land. As he revved his engine and his tyre rubber was just about to grip the slightly rough rutty terrain a man frantically ran towards him, flapping his arms and looking extremely harassed.

“Stop,” he shouted. “This is a natural burial ground!”

Simon retreated ashamed and embarassed. Now that could have been so much worse. I blame JC. n I had an insight into the world of fashion when I was on the casting panel for Oxfordshire fashion week.

Many wannabe and even established models strutted everything they had in the hope they would be selected for one of the many shows.

What a heady and exciting mix of undeniable beauty and talent– it’s going to be a great event this year. While I sat on the panel Betsy was with my husband, he had popped down to Wantage to visit friends.

I joined them a little later on and there I was greeted by my daughter who had found a black water-based marker pen and had drawn a beard all over her face. It had gone unnoticed until I walked in the door, she looked like one of the Three Musketeers.