When good seats go bad at Cirque du Soleil

It's New Year's Eve, opening night at Cirque du Soleil and I have a really great seat that's four rows from the stage, second from the aisle.

I will soon discover this is actually a really terrible seat.

But for now I'm quite amused as a clown zooms around the edge of the stage, trying to pick some poor git out of the crowd.

A spotlight grazes the top of the first few rows when - bang - it's so bright I'm squinting. The clown is pointing at someone behind me, grinning like a lunatic and beckoning them on stage. "Go on," says my friend, prying the champagne glass out of my hand. Oh shite. He's talking to me.

I am not going up there. I sit there willing the clown to go away. Everyone turns to look. Then he's dragging me up and all I can think is, "Thank God I didn't wear that skirt I got for Christmas - but, goddamn, I can't walk in these stilettos."

I'm grateful I can barely make out the audience. I feel like I've been abducted, standing naked in a neon surgery as 2500 aliens clap and jeer. Yes, I am going slightly psycho at this point. I'm giggling hysterically, the kind of uncontrollable laugh you get when you're at a wedding and they're reading the vows. My palms are so wet I'm surprised the clown could get a grip. I'm trying to figure out what the hell to do with my hands and my heels keep getting stuck in the tiny holes on the floor.

The aliens are laughing now as the clown grabs my shoes, hurls them into the crowd, then pulls three men on stage. One is told to stand next to me. "Are you right?" I whisper, really hoping for some kind of reassurance myself. "Yup," he answers, looking straight ahead.

For a minute I'm worried the two of us will be strapped into one of those spinning rope things and dangled metres above the stage. But it's far worse. The clown wants us to pretend we're in a movie. I'm a floozy in a feather boa getting it on with this guy - who looks like he's about to vomit - when my husband comes home and discovers us. The clown shows me what to do. There's no way I'm doing that.

I'm praying it will all be over soon, as I circle my hips mock-seductively and put on a stupid pout, then pretend to kiss the guy behind his hat. We do what feels like 77 more takes and it takes 10 hours. At the end I have to leap around like an idiot and fall into a heap on the ground as though I've been shot.

I've never been more embarrassed, and I'm not convinced that writing about the experience is going to save me from my suffering. But maybe, just maybe, I kind of, sort of, just-a-little-bit enjoyed it.