Having turned down David Frost's offer to be featured on Through the Keyhole because an ad break lasts longer than it takes to look round my current flat, I am moving again. This has proved a difficult task, made more unpleasant by estate agents. Take one local agency. In the office, a kid of barely 20 listened as I outlined my ideal home - a two-bed flat, nice area, in my price range. First he smirked and nodded, then he shook his head and stared at his hands, then he began glancing around as if bored, and finally he interrupted me: "Yeah right . . . you and the rest of the world, yeah. If anything comes up I'll give you a bell, yeah, but it probably won't, yeah?" He didn't even bother taking my phone number.

After dozens of similar interviews, I turned to the internet to find a property. Late one night, I stumbled across www.upmystreet.com, a website that supplies intimate details of any area in the UK. I typed in my postcode and, seconds later, was rewarded with a description of those who live in my "partially gentrified, multi-ethnic" neighbourhood. Under the heading "Attitudes", I read that there is a "heavy consumption of bacon" in Willesden and that locals are 50 per cent more likely than average to drink wine at home. Many of my neighbours read the Mirror and the Sun every day and the Sunday Mirror at weekends, while their "consumption of frozen beef burgers is extremely high".

I should have taken these lifestyle details into consideration when agreeing to let Hello! magazine into my home for a photo shoot with my new baby. "It won't take long, just a few shots of you and Alexandra in the nursery and around your lovely home . . ." said the features editor the day before the shoot. At that moment, I realised a one-bedroom attic conversion is hardly a celebrity editor's dream. The "nursery" is a two-foot-square corner of our bedroom, decorated with Winnie the Pooh stickers. There's no room for a wooden cot, so baby sleeps in a Moses basket underneath a shelf holding a precariously placed dolls house and a Jack Daniels presentation tin acting as a swear box and containing more than 20 quid.

The photographer looked slightly panicky as he surveyed the array of unimpressive shots on offer. Looking thoughtfully around the living/dining room, he quickly asked to see the nursery. "Ah," and "yes . . . maybe," he muttered. In the end, he wearily suggested a series of close-ups taken on the bed with the camera above us.

Even more bizarre was the time when Angela Rippon came round to interview me on the vagaries of NHS Direct. Sipping hot water from a Fidel Castro mug, she crossed her lovely long legs daintily over the edge of a dog-stained, Ikea chair. We chatted about the economy and she politely pointed out that the flat "at least" offers "a foot on to the property ladder"; she then sheepishly described her own very impressive residence near Notting Hill, where properties go for around a million pounds. Her perfectly manicured hands tapped the Castro mug thoughtfully and, as she stood up to leave, she kindly resisted the urge to dust off her pale grey trousers.

Back at www.upmystreet.com, the area I am moving into is described as a "prosperous enclave". The residents shun bacon for "ground coffee, fresh pasta . . . mineral water and fresh fish". The locals own more dishwashers than microwaves, and the consumption of frozen foods is below the national average. Even Peter Mandelson could feel at home in Crouch End. On second thoughts, maybe not - the most popular daily paper is the Guardian.