The hired help.

I'm answering so many emails and calls and texts that I'm starting to feel like I'm running a fan club. That's not a whinge; it's actually brilliant. Fan Club Manager has always (and by 'always' I mean 'since the Bros days') been pretty high on my Dream Jobs list. The only downsides in this version being that (a) I'm having to talk about cancer a lot and (b) I'm not getting close to Matt Goss/Jordan Knight/Gary Barlow. Yes yes, that's a tragic admission for a cool-conscious 28 year old, but I fear the friend-of-celebrities aspect may be something of a theme in my Dream Jobs list. (What I really wanted to write after that last comma, by the way, was '...but fuck it, I've got cancer'. Nothing personal, you understand – it's just my rapidly-darkening humour, and my current can't-fail answer for everything. Someone's reluctant to give way on the road? I'll pull out first anyway: 'Fuck it, I've got cancer.' One slice of pizza left? 'Fuck you lot, I'm having it – I've got cancer.') Anyway, I digress. Back to the Dream Jobs list...

1. Editor of Smash Hits (RIP)

2. Autobiography ghost writer

3. Interviewer/gig reviewer for Q

4. London cabbie (oh come on, we've all heard the 'guess who I had in here this week' stories)

See? All jobs with chances of meeting celebs. What a sad, sad git I am. Maybe florist should make it back into the top 5, then. (I can hear my family rolling around with laughter at the thought of me getting up for the necessary early mornings.) Nah, Fan Club Manager it is. And anyway, I'm getting pretty shit-hot at juggling such a suddenly-very-busy life.

Perhaps if the juggling becomes too much, I could make like Carrie Bradshaw and hire my very own 'Louise from St Louis' PA to sort my shit out for me. But rather than organising neat lines of designer heels and replying to glam party invites, she could arrange all my flowers, hang up my Dorothy Perkins online bargains and RSVP to my Christmas 2008 press preview invitations. ('L will unfortunately be unable to attend the Woolworths press event, but looks forward to receiving the Christmas catalogue.')

Actually, sod the PA. The plentiful contact is a welcome distraction from all the boob bullshit (despite said bullshit being the reason for the contact in the first place), and it's keeping me busy. We're usually a happy-to-sit-on-our-arses family (well, Mum aside), but if you could take a look inside my flat right now, you'd have never seen a more productive bunch of people. That noise you can hear in the background is the sound of P sawing branches off a tree in the garden, Dad cursing while trying to put together a flat-pack Ikea side table (with the obligatory key piece missing) and Mum ironing at a superhuman rate. We've given the cleaner a week off, she'd have nowt to do.

(By the way, during the course of this post, I've received 12 text messages, 7 emails, 3 cards and one House of Fraser press pack. Beat that, Bradshaw.)