ANY day now a film crew will turn up on my doorstep to make a docusoap about my life. I am a prime candidate for two reasons. The first is that I live in Brighton, which is used so often for TV dramas (EastEnders and Coronation Street have recently been filming down here and I noticed the other evening that the latest series of Grafters had those Geordie lads plodding along the Palace Pier) that I think we're all getting stars in our eyes - if not our back gardens.

The second is that, despite the multitude of programmes on real-life people, no one has yet done one called The Wife and Mum who Works From Home A Bit.

Yes, I can see it now. Millions will tune in every week to follow the ups and downs of my domestic life. There will be the nail-biting scenes when my husband cannot find a pair of matching socks, high drama when our toddler, Eve, throws her fish fingers on the floor and fall-about-laughing moments when yet another rep from a gas supplier attempts to explain their billing system to me.

I'll become a national celebrity. People will stop me in the street and say things like "How's your blocked sink?" or "Done your dusting yet?" or maybe even "When are you going to get a life?" (That'll be the jealous few).

I'll be invited to swanky parties in London where I'll befriend Chris Evans and Geri Halliwell. Richard and Judy will want me on their show every week to talk about matters such as why I don't take sugar in my tea and George Michael will suggest we record an album together (with me on the spoons) which rockets up the charts.

Then the sleaze-hunters will unearth a few mildly salacious stories about old boyfriends who'd been dumped or who had dumped me over rows about whose turn it was to do the washing up.

Eventually I shall have become so well known internationally that Hollywood will want to make a movie about my life and will cast Demi Moore (well, she's a brunette too) to star in The Life of Jacqui Bealing.

But then the bubble bursts. The film flops after critics rip it apart for having no plot, my name is no longer used to sell toilet rolls and I am not invited to star in any more pantomimes.

I announce my retirement from the spotlight and open a tea shop in the Outer Hebrides.

Ten years later, the fashion for docusoaps returns and someone decides that the life of a tea shop owner in the Outer Hebrides would make brilliant television. A film crew arrives and the nation soon becomes gripped by the troubles I have with my scones. I know this is my destiny.

In fact, I thought it had already started the other day when a telephone engineer asked for my autograph. I was just working out what sort of message I should write when I realised he was pointing to a spot marked "X" on his call-out form. He meant to say "signature". It was obviously a Freudian slip.

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