I clutch my hands over my breasts and dangle my left foot above the bathtub.
I’m momentarily distracted by the glittery blue of my painted toenails but quickly snap back to reality when a slate is unceremoniously clapped in front of my face.
A boom microphone bobs fleetingly into my peripheral vision as the sound guy shouts "speed". The cameraman wedged tightly behind his equipment in a corner of the shower calls out "rolling".
Watch: The times our bodily functions got the better of us. Post continues below.
The director, who is outside — there’s only so many people you can fit into a bathroom — yells "action", and I drop my hands and slide into the bathtub.
I’m trying hard to stay in character, but my mind is insisting on focusing all its attention on my flabby middle-aged tummy and no longer perky (have-breastfed-two-children) breasts.
I suck in my stomach, push out my shoulders, arch my back... that must look better surely? I surreptitiously glance down and catch a glimpse of bulging stomach flab. Oh god! The door to the bathroom bursts open, startling me – good natural reaction there – and a half-naked man storms in.
He tries to grab me and pull me out of the bathtub, I thrash around and fight back, until my mind interrupts me with the critical information that I am still naked and now side-on to the camera. Not a good angle for no longer perky breasts.
I turn more frontwards as another man, a security guard, races into the bathroom and grabs the half-naked man, dragging him out. I quickly suck in my stomach, push back my shoulders.
Oh wait a sec, I’m meant to look traumatised. Knees in, arms around knees.
"Cut!" the director yells, strolling in.
"That was great, maybe a bit more relaxed at the start. You looked a little tense. I loved the freezing up moment in the middle of the attack though. Let’s do it again."