My year as an almost-celebrity has left me permanently damaged; I am now utterly unable to take "no" for an answer. Minor names and wannabes live their lives in Groucho Marx land; you never want to belong to the clubs or go to the events that will have you. So, most days involve the minor challenge of convincing an inept PR that leaving you off their guest list is a mistake to be easily rectified.

"Hi, it's Lauren Booth here. My invite to your party/ premiere/awards is late and I just wanted to check you have my new address." Eighty per cent of the time, the overpaid "Caroline" would gush, "Oh, sorry Lauren, where do you want it sent?" or, better still, "Sorry for the delay, yah? How can we make it up to you?" Ah, let me see, an expensive goody bag filled with cosmetics would be a start, or how about loaning me those 30-carat diamonds for tomorrow's Will Smith premiere?

Don't judge me too harshly, dear hard-working reader. I was younger then, and a part of me felt that getting one over on an overpaid "yah, yah" was part of the modern class struggle - an extension of the them-and-us battles. How dare they exclude me in favour of their anorexic clique? OK, so the main glory was in getting mates a free night out drinking champagne with John Cusack and the DJ Goldie. But the ligging brought me some pleasant perks. The £700 bicycle has come in handy. The ten-day stay in five-star, diamond-class luxury was pretty nice. The chance to infuriate the Millbank posse by being photographed out on the town with their "catch", Mick Hucknall, still sends a shiver of glory down my spine. And the skills I honed in those giddy years are still useful in my "real" life as a pregnant, working mum.

On Sunday, I decided to take my daughter to Zippo's Circus in Hampstead, north London. I had meant to book ahead but never got round to it. Walking on to the heath behind Prada mummies and Ralph Lauren daddies, my heart sank. The queue for tickets was immense. The show was due to start in ten minutes. My daughter tugged my arm, eyes shiny and bright with wonder at the mere sight of the blue big top, its flags waving in the breeze. "Dumbo, Mummy, Du-umbo. Circus yaay!" The sign ahead of us read: "This show SOLD OUT!"

My heart sank. My daughter believed in me 100 per cent. I had told her all week about "magic" and "adventures with people flying through the air". She was jumping for joy and yelling the word "circus".

The large roustabout guarding the entrance to the big top was bald, with the battered features of an underground boxer.

"Hi," I faltered. I tried to think of a strategy but then went straight for pleading: "Look, my daughter really wants to see your circus. Will there be any returns? Can we just wait here quietly?" Other parents comforting equally distraught kids tutted in a "look at her trying it on" type of way.

"No returns." The bouncer looked over my shoulder. "Next ticket-holder, please." One of the mummies tittered.

I waited patiently, a plan forming in my mind. Then I approached him again.

"If a group doesn't turn up, there might be some seats free, mightn't there?"

This time he sent me to "ask at the office window". I was in!

The lady at the box office was a breeze. "Hi, the man on the gate sent me over because the group behind me hasn't turned up."

"How many tickets d'ya need?" Money changed hands. I felt like a Lottery winner as I skipped hand-in-hand with my daughter past the other families. But now for the real challenges: can I blag my way on to the books of a reputable GP? And did I get into the hall to see the Prime Minister's speech again this year without a ticket? Watch this space.