James knocks on the door, as am putting finishing touches to in-depth piece of investigative journalism.

He wants to ask if I would be able to bring his children home from school and mind them for a bit, as he has just received call asking him to audition for part in TV series.

James is an urban househusband or, as his agent would have anyone who cares to listen believe, an actor of incredible potential who just happens to look after his two children while waiting for big break.

Meanwhile, Edith, his hotshot solicitor wife keeps him in publicity photos. Incidentally, it takes Edith a swift, efficient, 25 minutes to get up, shower, gather her briefs and leave for work, while rest of household is still hidden beneath duvets. Annoyingly, it seems to take James far less time to get himself and the two children - even though they both take pack lunches to school - up and ready than it takes self (and he, certainly, never taken them to school in his pyjamas).

Anyway - hooray! James is up for the part of a small-time petty drug dealer in The Bill (he is apparently to be arrested for supplying to junior school children, so if he gets the part will no doubt be recognised and mistaken for petty drug dealer by other parents, as he loiters at school gates, intent on supplying his own children with soft drinks and E numbers).

Have, in the past, mistaken some of the many out-of-work actors who have graced various episodes of The Bill for the genuine article. Only last week, left the children's paddling pool on seafront with Rugrats in tow after becoming suspicious that pool was centre for paedophile activity - due to presence of undercover but still recognisable police inspector. The latter may have had his trousers rolled up but still looked every inch a copper.

It was only after I'd dragged protesting Rugrats as far as nearest ice cream vendor that I realised the inspector in question was none other than Chief Inspector Brownlow of The Bill (or rather none other than the actor who used to play him, whose names is not as familiar to me as that of his alter ego) and that he was probably genuinely paddling, with some genuine offspring, rather than seeking to covertly protect those of others.

A couple of days later, a familiar and slightly authoritarian figure appeared in the swimming pool and, after several lengths of furious crawl (to my leisurely lengths of breaststroke), I realised he was Brownlow's metropolitan rival, Chief Inspector Manyon (whose genuine name also escapes me).

I was half expecting him to serve me with an NPower bill (NPower sponsors The Bill) but he carried on crawling, unaware that he and his fellow acting brethren are achieving, with some success, what the government has been unable to achieve - namely increasing police presence on the streets (or in my case, any watery places I happen to be) thereby making the public feel more secure.

James was obviously hoping to undermine any such feelings of security by landing the part, thereby increasing the perceived presence of drug dealers on the streets. So I agreed to collect and mind his offspring and duly went to pick them up from classrooms, only to be asked by teacher if I could come in and have a word.

"I'm a bit worried," she said with anxious, worried look on face. "James's daughter told me you were coming to pick her up, as her Dad had to go to work?"

"That's right," I agreed, unsure why self looking after children should be quite such a cause for concern - but she was concerned for another reason.

"She said his job involved selling drugs at another school. . ."