Graphic footage of me wrestling my chin bristles with deadly steel weaponry in the bathroom and, sheathed in rubber, delving for the plastic Smurf someone's dropped down the lavatory.
The terror when the grill pan bursts into flames after I try greaseproof paper as a substitute lining for foil.
The psychotic mood swings, when, tucking my babes up for the night, I glimpse the state of their bedrooms.
The raw expose of mid-life marriage as the Vicar and I masticate side by side on a wedge of Cathedral City while watching re-runs of Foyle's War under his 'n' hers sofa rugs.
The chilling suspense as, with five minutes to go before school drop off, I'm still hunting down my son's left shoe.
The wanton child cruelty as I confiscate my sobbing daughter's iPod Touch for the third time in a week.
The ungodly indecorum when, at 9am on the Sabbath, I realise I'm on the rota to explain decapitation to flock of Sunday School toddlers.
The undignified lack of self-control when, at 10pm, the Vicar and I can no longer suppress the urgency of our need and head for bed with Sophie Kinsella.
Is your family life fit for public viewing?