I really should have learnt by now that I can get away with bending the facts slightly over the phone.

But somehow it never seems to come out quite as firmly as I should like it to and, anyway, it didn't seem fair to walk away from my lovely young team of film-makers simply because I had only just recovered from their previous assault course.

This time, instead of the interior of my humble abode, the phone call was offering me the chance to be photographed in the exotic surroundings of the most famous dwelling in Brighton, the Royal Pavilion.

With great excitement they told me they had managed to get a time slot and could I come along at very short notice to take part in the shoot? As I had been privileged during my time as a councillor to be a member of the working party which had been responsible for the restoration of the wonderful building, it was an offer I couldn't refuse.

I felt my first misgivings when the car which came to fetch me turned out to be a low-slung sports car, full of vroom vroom.

Now those of you who know me will realise I am built for comfort, not for speed, and shovelling me into this form of transport was an exercise in logistics I should not wish to go through too often.

My eviction at the other end gave rise to a degree of hilarity among the onlookers but we got our own back by walking firmly to the head of the queue with our cameras and tripods at the ready for use as battering rams should anyone object.

There were a number of school parties of varying nationalities being led around, willingly or otherwise, some of whose members discovered wonderful skills at pulling faces at the camera as they passed.

I don't know what the German is for "Guess what, Mum, I'm on TV" but I suspect it figured in a few postcards home.

We, on the other hand, were setting up shots in between the onrush of the little darlings so that as the last pair of trousers, elegantly slung at half mast, slouched out of the door, we could get the shots we wanted before the next group appeared.

If I never walk down a long corridor towards a camera looking thoughtful, interested or plain "get out of my way, I can't stop in the middle of a shot" again, it will still be too soon. There is something about a camera which seems to bring out the worst in people. They all want to get in on the act.

Considering that, as a nation, we are looked on as fairly starchy, not to say stand-offish, it is amazing that the mere whiff of a film or TV camera seems to make the public feel they are our dearest friends.

Adults as well as the young people were full of questions as we wended our way from shot to shot around the building.

The staff, who must see this sort of activity almost daily, were wonderful at moving people on if they thought it necessary and we got all the film we wanted without any major disasters.

For me it was a day to renew my love affair with this magical building. I could cast my mind back to the building site it had once resembled and compare it with what it is today.

I remember when the hoardings were up around the site and some joker had sprayed the message "The most expensive council house in Brighton" across them but I also remembered the support we had from the general public.

As I sat waiting for the car to take me home, a small boy looked me up and down and said: "Are you the old Queen?"

I'm afraid I let my sense of humour get the better of me. "We," I said firmly "are not amused." I think I heard a hint of ghostly laughter from the old stones.