I'm back at my desk now after my brief brush with fame. I got rather longer than 15 minutes, which is something I feel every woman is entitled to.

Simon Mayo was a charming, affable host and I'm really looking forward to seeing him for a return match next year, although next time I want to be talking about life, and not death.

I left the studio and made the journey back to Paddington, and on the way I came upon one of the most visually arresting sights I have ever encountered. I don't think anybody else saw what I saw, or they would have stopped, as I did, and gazed in wonderment. Maybe I should get out more, but have Londoners become so jaded that they walk right past voyeuristic vignettes of pure delight without even a backward glance? I've seen a lot of buskers in the underground, but never one playing a full-sized harp. However, it wasn't the instrument that was startling, but the man who was plucking it. Call me old-fashioned, but is it entirely appropriate to sit astride a harp whilst wearing a kilt? Who knows? But there he was, in all his tartan glory, plucking at his heavenly harp without a care in the world, and I, being a red-blooded woman with rather too much free time, couldn't help but stop and stare. And then I felt the urge, and I couldn't fight it, so I bent down and tried to see if he was indeed a true Scotsman, or just a feeble impostor. Sadly, it was too dark to get a proper look, but I think it's safe to say that his confident air pointed to the fact that he was being plucky in more ways than one.

Thinking back on it now I can only assume that it was a heavenly vision, sent to me as a parting gift for being saintly on the show and doing my best to help all the listeners. I do wish that I'd been similarly gifted at the time with better eyesight, a powerful torch, and a sharp gust of wind, but busker botherers can't be choosers...

I've spent the last two days on an emotional rollercoaster, answering mail from all the people who felt the need to ask for my help after hearing the show. I don't know how agony aunts manage, but the process of deciphering complex emotional issues from sketchy information and then writing a suitably apt and uplifting reply leaves me feeling mentally drained and very upset. But it's what I do, and I feel compelled to help those who ask me. I have to admit that I also felt compelled to tell the divorced woman who wrote and asked me to find her a publisher for her book, to 'get bent', but I didn't. I was polite in my refusal and I wish her luck in with it.

I don't know for how much longer I can continue to write back to every person who writes to me. Beth got very cross with me when she found out that I had spent two days locked in my room, answering mail, but she knows that when I have a job to do, I get on with it and cannot be diverted. But I do think that as the year progresses I am going to have to evaluate what I do, and try to find a less exhausting way of helping people.

Rosie was asked to write a biography of someone she knows this week, and I was very flattered that she chose to write about me. I stood back and left her to it, despite the fact that she was asking for help, because I wanted to see what she could come up with on her own. As insights into the happiness of a daughter go, Rosie's piece of writing was both immensely comforting and deeply moving. There could be no clearer indication of her state of mind and level of personal contentment, and I have to say that it is impossible to read without crying. Even Rosie's male teacher had to walk away after reading it, so that he could compose himself. He hugged her when he came back, and told her that he would be proud to have her as a daughter. She doesn't really know what all the fuss is about, but the pride I have for my beautiful, articulate, loving child knows no bounds. She has composed a eulogy that is measured in its tone and yet boundless in its declarations of love and happiness. Many people believe that a child who has lost a parent could never be as happy as a child who has the luxury of both a mother and a father - but I have to disagree. If I needed evidence that I have managed to make life happy again for my girls, then there could be no more conclusive proof. Her father would be so proud.

I have to go on the radio again next week. I'm doing an interview on the BBC Radio Shropshire mid morning show, and it'll be the fourth time I've been on. I sit in a small, gloomy room somewhere in the bowels of BBC Plymouth, and talk to a DJ called Jim, about anything that he chooses to ask me. It is always a joy to exchange a bit of ribald on-air banter with Mr. Hawkins, (even if I am talking to myself in a broom cupboard), although I am under strict instructions from Jane, the show's producer, not to say anything that might attract the attentions of the Broadcast Complaints Commission.

I have got to know Jane quite well over the past year, via e-mail communication; she is another person whom I now consider to be a good friend, despite the fact that we've never actually met. I'm going to do my best to give great interview next Friday, because I owe it to Jane. I may bleat on about finding it hard to help so many people, but Jane is one of the people who have helped me to remain sane and focussed. Thanks mate.


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