I hope my new type of journalism-diplomacy catches on

Sorry I missed the recent fundraising masturbate-athon. I would have happily lent a hand. I could have saved them the needless expenditure on Kleenex, too. Unfortunately I was busy in the country, enjoying a Fireman's Charity Leg Wax at my local pub. Maybe next year they could combine the events? The trend seems to be to sponsor people for doing things they'd do anyway. "You're going on a luxury holiday to Barbados to raise money for a good cause? You're a saint! Let me find my purse at once." There's a charity for everything, too. My favourite is the Essex Boxer Dog Rescue Association. It will rescue dogs of the boxer variety only, and then only if they happen to be in Essex. Dig deep, everyone.

Back in the country, my builders have lifted up the floorboards in my ancient house, to do something technical involving pipes and wires, and have discovered artefacts of bygone days: a clay pipe, a rat's skull and an antique glass marble. These curiosities had lain there for years in the dark and dust; now they sit on my window sill, basking in the sunshine. I wondered if they were connected? I expect a 16th-century farmer dropped his pipe in surprise when he saw the rat, then killed it by deftly throwing the marble.

I'm as choosy about work as George Michael is about his gentlemen callers. (If Love Island producers are reading this, my bag is packed.) I have a lot of expensive refurbishments to pay for: I must grab any morsels that come my way, even if it means getting up at 5am to present the BBC London radio breakfast show for a week, while the regular host is on holiday. It's a responsible job, waking up Londoners, easing them into their day with a cheery innuendo and a weather report. It's "talk" radio, and the big challenge is to sound interested about everything. Max the roving reporter beaming in from the Albert Bridge to tell us about the new lane system was a real test of my professionalism.

I wanted to see if I could cut it as a serious journalist. A woman with a quivering voice was on the line from the electricity company to explain why power cuts had crippled parts of the West End the previous day. I think she was expecting a Paxman-style grilling, but I was in a forgiving mood. "Never mind, you're only human," I told her. "Don't worry about it."

I'm convinced I've stumbled across a new type of diplomacy and I do hope it catches on nationally. Police corruption? Don't do it again. Serial killers? That's enough now. Illegal immigrants? At least stay for lunch. It's the way forward, I'm sure of it.

Talking of serious journalists, one arrived in a chauffeur-driven Mercedes to do a feature on me. As she was from the Daily Mail I tried to restrict her to the garden. I didn't want her smearing swastikas on the walls with her own faeces. But when she whipped a pair of divining sticks out of her handbag and offered to locate any spirits in the house, temptation got the better of me. I ushered her in through the French windows and followed close behind with a bucket and shovel. Turns out I've got more ghosts than you can shake a stick at. There's a 17th-century washerwoman in my kitchen (although I suspect she may have been fooled by the hologram of Germaine Greer I got from a car-boot sale in Huddersfield), and a confused youth in an upstairs bedroom. So what's new?

She stopped and swayed outside my bedroom door, her sticks whirring about like a cheerleader on crystal meth. Tell me I didn't leave the lid off my amyl nitrite. Then I felt a cold presence. "Here is the vortex," she murmured. "The spirit of John hovers here and he's dressed as the Laughing Cavalier." We all have our funny ways. Still, I'm going to have to get an exorcist in. Not for the ghosts - they're very welcome - but because she left a copy of the Mail behind.

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