MY HOUSEHOLD has just been taken over lock, stock and barrel by a human whirlwind with the face of an angel and nerves of steel. Michelle is the name, our godchild, all of eight years old.

Michelle took command as soon as she arrived from Devon for an indefinite stay. She must be the only person on earth allowed to give me orders without question.

"I've got my eye on you," she announces imperiously if I fail to meet her requirements at a moment's notice - anything from chocolate mousse in a 101 Dalmatians carton to brown shoes in a wide fitting.

To add a little extra space to life's rich tapestry, she comes attached to a daft ha'porth of a dog named Louis and a crazy cat called Tickles.

Louis seems to be part collie and a touch of greyhound and a dash of Alsatian while Tickles is a feral tabby found under a hedge. She thinks she's a dog.

Being a mixed up kid, Louis needs plenty of tender loving care and for safety stays close to Michelle at all times. Tickles follows Louis. She distrusts all humans. One glance and she runs for cover.

In the way animals do, both dog and cat have dedicated their lives to Michelle, no doubt appreciating they can rely on her to look after their interests. She simply barks instructions on their behalf.

Michelle interprets every wish by some secret code denied to the adult world and knows exactly when they want to eat, sleep, play or go walkies. She also knows where they are when they disappear, though she isn't always telling.

Having never owned a dog I didn't realise that exercising these creatures twice a day is like training for the London Marathon. I have to throw sticks mile after mile until girl and dog decide the poor old soul can't take any more.

We did get rubber ball, but it landed in Hove Lagoon in no time flat. I was back soon after dawn to fish it out with a rake. Would you believe, it had gone.

When I complained about my £4.50 going down the drain, Michelle responded: "Well, you'll have to buy another one - and don't spend so much money next time."

Worst of all is the fiendish device called the pooper-scooper. Greater love hath no man. I'll say no more.

Whether balancing on a two-inch railing or rewriting Cinderella, Michelle has us wrapped around her little finger. D'you know, the extraordinary thing is that Ellen and I are over the moon about it. Exhausted we may be, but life has never been sweeter.

Just to see that little girl's rosy cheeks and smiling eyes as she comes for a goodnight kiss, all wrapped up in a white towelling dressing gown, is the nearest thing to heaven this old fool has ever encountered.

I could go on, but she wishes to use the computer. Apparently Louis wants her to draw his picture. "I'll use the Paint programme," she tells me. I didn't know there was such a thing, but then I'm learning every day.

THERE'S A SERIOUS LACK OF NEW TV COMEDY AROUND

WHAT was the television's best comedy series of all time? Fawlty Towers, I guess, thanks to its brilliant scripts, though Dad's Army must follow closely behind.

Much as everyone loved Tony Hancock - the nation used to stop when he came on at 7.30pm - I don't think there's ever been a comedy actor to beat Arthur Lowe, whether playing Captain Mainwaring or any other role.

Now most of the giants of the past are dead and their successors seem to have lost the thread. Today's sitcoms are corny, banal rubbish, while repeats of the gold oldies always win the ratings.

Even Sir John Birt, the BBC's director-general, says he's concerned about the quality of current shows. An astonishing admission, since the BBC normally never acknowledges a single error or omission. I should know. I worked there for 12 years.

NOISY FALL OFF THE WAGON

NOW it's the turn of football idol Paul Merson to spread alarm and despondency among all those with a drink problem who struggle to beat the booze.

After nearly five years on the wagon, Paul Merson should have had the sense to keep quiet about the eight hours he spent knocking back vodka and finishing up in bed with a publicity girl.

If people like him can't make it on £20,000 a week and support at every turn, they are going to say then what chance have we got?

Now we can understand why Alcoholics Anonymous are just that - they don't want high powered publicity from celebrities, thank you, knowing from experience of the harm they do should they go back on the bottle.

Meanwhile, it's about time the FA sorted out the handful of highly paid soccer players who seem to revel in drunken punch-ups and other hooliganism in the wee hours of the morning.

A PICTURE OF WEALTH

AMAZING to think that Big Breakfast beauty Kelly Brook is top candidate for £150,000 to front Playboy's millennium edition. When we started the Page Three syndrome 25 years ago the normal fee was £200 for the first hour and then £100 per hour, the object being to wrap up within three hours.

Newspapers paid £200 for first rights and the photographer sold the rest worldwide. The girls usually don't receive another penny - though these days the Kelly Brooks of this world employ high-powered agents to protect their rights.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.