One day all that will be left of me will be a ribcage and a scrap of a Gucci scarf

I travelled to Dick Whittington rehearsals on public transport, just like an ordinary person. I think it’s good for my immune system to encounter the general public close up, even if some of you do live in rented accommodation and clearly choose not to invest in expensive skincare products.

I dressed down to discourage unwanted attention, although I had to go on a pre-blending-in shopping spree. Isn't Gap a boon?

I found some particularly unpleasant woolly trousers and was thrilled when a man sat opposite me wearing an identical pair, only dirtier. Well worth the rash on my inner thigh.

On one of my excursions, there was the excitement of the Transport Police randomly stopping travellers and asking in accusing tones to see their tickets. They stood at the barrier looking us up and down as we hurried through one of those darling little tunnels. They circled us like lions around a herd of zebra. No doubt they're trained to spot dodgy types in a crowd, I thought to myself. Imagine my surprise when I was hoicked to one side. (The hooded tracksuit top was obviously working.) Three uniformed hunks surrounded me and hissed their demands. I was rather enjoying the moment, so I patted my pockets and tutted for a while, pretending I couldn't find my ticket.

Their breathing got heavier and they closed in on me. Finally, I opened my man bag and exclaimed: "Here it is!" A second later, and I would have been bundled into a windowless interrogation room and violated in every conceivable way. Tomorrow, if my legs can manage it, I'm going to jump the barrier and see what happens. It is Christmas, after all.

Two shows a day is gruelling for someone who finds turning over in bed a chore. Thankfully, I have eight fabulous costumes. The look is Dorothy Squires crossed with Lindsay Kemp. If I can endure the exertion of putting them on, all I have to do is walk on stage, arms outstretched, and rapturous applause is mine. As the Spirit of the Bells I am, by definition, an ethereal being. As a method actor I live and breathe my part. I am liable to slip into rhyming couplets at any time. Only this morning I said to a tattooed stagehand:

I am the Spirit of the Bells,

Or can I give you one for the road?

I make my grand entrance in a rocket to the theme of Star Wars, and explain to the audience that there is terrible congestion up there in space. After the first performance the producer suggested that my line "Nothing worse than a bottleneck around Uranus, is there?" might be overstepping the mark for a family show.

Unfortunately, there is one terrifying scene where I am required to put on a harness and "fly" on wires 20 feet up in the air, and then, if you please, sing that awful song from Titanic and do a somersault at the end. I haven't yet shat on the darling children of Northampton, but I fear it's just a question of time.

I'm not saying I'm bad at relationships, but if I was on I'm a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! the loved ones flown in to greet me on my eviction would probably be the man from the corner shop, my local Community Support Officer and the sheep from the field opposite my house.

I realised this when my mobile phone had a breakdown and I was incommunicado for six days. No friends, lovers, agents or relatives felt the need to investigate. I suspect I might one day feature in the sort of documentary where old folk are discovered to be dead only when the bluebottles that enjoy nothing better than an abandoned cadaver become a nuisance to those living next door. All that will be left of me will be a ribcage and a scrap of a Gucci scarf.

Post this article to

• Digg
• del.icio.us
• facebook
• newsvine
• NowPublic
• Reddit

We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.