I was offered some Kate Moss and a sniff of Peter Sellers but didn't want to end up all Pope John Paul II

The nerve! Having recommended my Botox doctor to some of my friends of a certain age, I hear that, apparently, she now asks if they want "the full Julian Clary". I am most indignant to discover that

my name is publicly synonymous with such a private procedure. I

feel violated. Am I more expensive than the full Imelda Marcos or, God forbid, cheaper? I've a good mind to go round there and give her a piece of my Joan Bakewell.

Apart from that, it's been a bit of a Claire Sweeney week. I went to the Golden Joystick Awards but it turned out to be about computer games. How Rupert Everett is that? I had too many Charles Kennedys and found myself in a Naomi Campbell situation with a right Dale Winton. He wants to go to Malawi and do a Madonna but doesn't want to be accused of the Jonathan Kings. Went to a Jamie Oliver-style restaurant and ate like Michelle McManus. Suspect that my career has a touch of the Michael Barrymores. Feel like doing a John Stonehouse. To stop myself sliding into the full Gazza, I popped a couple of Judy Garlands and soon felt pretty Fern Britton. Was offered some Kate Moss and a sniff of Peter Sellers but didn't want to end up all Pope John Paul II. Woke up naked in a very Trinny and Susannah flat. Suspect I've been Paris Hiltoned by a right John Leslie. Borrowed some Phillip Schofield clothes and got a taxi driven by a Ronnie Corbett. The price was very Trisha Goddard. Was locked out of my flat and nearly did a Geri Halliwell in the street, but the Stephen Dorff upstairs invited me in and we did a Preston and Chantelle on the hearthrug. Once I caught a glimpse of his Linford Christie, I came over all Linda Lovelace and pretty soon it was Gillian Taylforth time. By the time I got home I was thoroughly Tony Blaired.

Walking down a country lane in rain-drenched Kent, I saw a rabbit ahead and watched to see when it would run off. My dog, Valerie, was straining at the leash. Closer and closer we got, but the rabbit pottered about, chewing the grass, quite unconcerned. Valerie couldn’t believe such insolence, and let out an angry whelp. We drew alongside the rabbit, but still it didn’t flinch. I noticed its glazed eyes first, and then I clapped my hands. It seemed this healthy, happy rabbit was deaf as well as blind. I dragged a bewildered Valerie away into the woods.

A few minutes later, I was transfixed by a sunset-red, fairy-tale mushroom. I wondered at its silent, blushing beauty. Then, further into the wood, we encountered a man with a basket. Being a local, he knew all about mushrooms. I told him of my discovery and he identified it as an Amanita muscaria. "Nasty stuff. LSD, basically. I took some as a youngster. Pink elephants for a fortnight. I still have flashbacks."

Maybe the rabbit I saw didn't have myxomatosis. Maybe it was just high after an injudicious nibble? We've all been there. The rabbit was temporarily mute, not permanently disadvantaged. As soon as the drug wore off its sight and hearing would return, and its road sense with it.

I hosted some industry awards this week. Fourteen hundred young bucks and alpha female career gals were having a night out, with much punching of the air and enough cheap white wine to keep Girls Aloud afloat for a whole Friday night. I knew it was going to be tough. Sitting in my posh hotel room awaiting my ten-minute call (as soon as coffee was served I had to go down to the ballroom; they were on the poached pears, garnished with a novelty chocolate spoon), I felt sick with nerves. Should I open the minibar and seek sedation? But it was too late.

I received the call and put on my glittery jacket. I caught the lift down to the basement, much

like Marie-Antoinette’s dignified procession to the guillotine.

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