In these parts, there are plenty of opportunities to annoy the Homeless Tsar by giving small change to the poor and/or feckless. First, there's the politically acceptable face of homelessness epitomised by the heavily lined lady in her fifties, wrapped in a series of Dr Who scarves, selling the Big Issue. Her "pitch" is outside the Tube station and, whenever I pass, she coos enthusiastically over my dog or my baby - sometimes both. We chat as though we both have cosy homes to go to and, as I leave her standing in the freezing rain, she inevitably says: "Have a nice evening, dear." And I inevitably blurt: "You, too."

Further down the road, the addicted beggar is king. One regularly demands "a quid for some chips". The first time he asked, I gave him a pound, only to see him stagger past the kebab shop and hand a scruffy teenager a handful of cash. They exchanged a complex handshake, but the kid was not selling fried foods.

Collecting cash for charities has proved as tricky as making donations on the high street. I was flattered when the Prince's Trust asked me to accept a cheque on its behalf at a large event. I poured myself into my best suit and high heels and set out on a damp Sunday afternoon to "The Biggest Car Boot Sale in Essex . . . Ever!!!!" After I had tramped through two fields sheepishly clutching a designer handbag and tottering around vast puddles littered with notes reading "All items 20p", the rugby clubhouse finally appeared. Here, an embarrassed young girl handed me an oversized cheque and ushered a bored photographer in my direction who asked: "What's your name again?" Somewhere in the files of an Essex newspaper is a photo of me covered in mud, sitting in the boot of a car, clutching a giant piece of cardboard.

Still, at least I wasn't threatened with ABH. That happened when I was out and about for the charity War Child. Nick Nosh (TV chef), Jono (a DJ on Heart FM) and an ex-page three "stunna" (turned Channel 5 presenter) invited me to join them when they trawled the bars of W1 collecting cash from punters. We piled into the back of a limo, leaping out, buckets flying, at every restaurant. Jono brought along a megaphone and, bursting through the doors, told surprised drinkers: "We'll stay and annoy you until you give money to help the kiddies. And fat Aussies can really be annoying, so cough up!"

At the last pub before our final money Mecca - the Groucho - I dived in alone, shaking my bucket noisily in the doorway and yelling: "Give us your cash now, come on, just the price of a round will really help . . . " A scarred skinhead rushed up and promised to "push my face in" unless I left. I loudly joked to the stunned Friday-night crowd that a little beer money was "hardly worth getting that upset about", to which he snarled: "It is if you run the f*****g place." Jono suddenly appeared behind me and, putting the megaphone between us and the landlord, told the crowd to "follow us and spend your money in another pub. Don't give any more money to this scum." The pub landlord lunged towards us and we left quickly.

Finally, we arrived at the Groucho. In the street, "Outside Dave", the homeless beggar with the best pitch in London, stopped me. He was sitting on his sleeping-bag and blankets, reading the Guardian. Folding his paper neatly, he quizzed me for several minutes about the charity and where any donated money would go. He nodded his head slowly, and solemnly reached a dirty hand into his jeans pocket. "You gotta look after the kids," he growled, putting a tenner into the bucket.

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