I love being the mother of daughters. My girls are a constant source of joy to me, most of the time they act their age, but occasionally I get a glimpse of how they're going to be as adults. I don't care what they do when they're older, just as long as they enjoy doing it, but I do care that they learn to develop a good sense of humour; it's that which will mark them out and it's that which will sustain them through their darkest hours. Alice usually lags behind her sister in terms of witty reposts, because she's younger and hasn't yet come into her own, but last week she surprised us all. We were watching a programme together, which ended with a lingering kiss. Alice usually covers her eyes at such moments, or shouts, 'yeeeuuuuch', but on this occasion she watched the necking couple for a few moments, and then shouted, 'Oh, get a room!'

If I'd been eating a grape I would surely have choked. Rosie looked at me and I looked at Rosie and we both looked at little Alice, and realised that she had indeed inherited the family wit. When later pressed about the meaning of her bold statement, Alice told me that getting a room is when 'a man and a woman go upstairs and do their dirty business.'

I thought it might be time for the big talk, but this morning, when I asked if she knew what happened between a man and a woman who love each other very much and have an urgent and pressing need to get a room, she seemed to have a pretty good idea of the mechanics, even if all the parts weren't in exactly the right place. Charlie once said that he hoped his girls would always feel that they could come and talk to us about anything, and I've always tried to keep that in mind. My girls often read my diary before it goes live, so they know I have a ribald sense of humour, but they also know that I have very strong moral beliefs, which I hope they will adopt as they grow into adulthood. I can't make them be good little girls, but I can give them unending moral guidance and support. I don't have much call for that kind of thing myself, mainly because I've had zero trouser action since Charlie died. Getting wood in my house generally involves a big chopper, a firm hand and lots of grunting, but sadly there is never a man involved, just a pile of split oak, thick gloves and a wheelbarrow.

I don't suppose my girls think I'll ever meet a man, and sometimes I'm inclined to agree. Last week, on the anniversary of Charlie's death I had to comfort a tearful Rosie, who couldn't sleep because she was missing her daddy. She only has one wish, and that's for me to meet a man so that she can have a daddy just like everyone else. I can do most everything around the house. I can demonstrate to my girls that if you put your mind to it, then nothing is impossible; they see me as some kind of superwoman, but all the while I know I'm a failure, because although I can give them a comfortable home and a happy, loving environment, I just can't give them what they really need. I am a failure and there's nothing I can do about it. I can fix a lawnmower and build a cupboard, but I can't just pop down to B&Q and pick up a good man.

But it's no good bleating on about it because I know in my heart that sooner or later I won't have to go down the lane to get wood. Wood will be at my fingertips; I'll have a man in my life again and my girls will have their new daddy.

Alice came to me last week and said, 'I can hear daddy talking to me. He's saying he loves me and telling me it's going to be all right. But I know it can't be daddy because I was only a baby when he died and I can't remember what his voice sounded like.' Things like that profoundly affect me, and I believe they are a clear and obvious sign that Charlie is still keeping an eye on us all. I told Alice that it was her daddy, and that he probably talked to her quite often, if only she'd take the trouble to listen. She did find it hard to grasp the concept and I think she still believes that she is producing the voice in her head, but I know very well that she was frightened and upset by what she heard, and that doesn't happen unless you are hearing something you've never heard before.

Last week I had to leave my girls to go and give a series of radio interviews about the new book. I remember the first interview I ever gave, I was extremely nervous and can remember my heart thumping in my chest before it began. Now I don't give them a second thought. Live interviews are easy if you have a good interviewer, however they can be more problematic if you get a proper numpty. I always mirror my interviewer, and give my best interviews if the person asking the questions has actually read my work and is able to display a modicum of wit. My first interview of the day happened to be with a couple of DJs whose literary pretensions clearly only stretched as far as Take a Break magazine. I tried to be patient when they mispronounced my name, I tried to be patient when they got the name of my publisher wrong, but I'm afraid my patience ended when the first question came winging its way across the ether. 'Did you write the book because you saw a gap in the market?' I had to take a deep breath and swallow my immediate response: 'Yes, fuckwit, I really am that shallow. I found it easy to exploit a group of vulnerable, needy people and my only motivation was greed.' But I didn't say that, instead choosing to suggest that the interviewer had chosen a rather unfortunate way of phrasing his question. After that I really didn't care what he asked. He clearly hadn't read the book so there didn't seem much point in illuminating him further. We won't be keeping in touch.

But all the other interviews were great. Everyone else had taken the trouble to read the book and they all seemed to love it. My special thanks go to Danny Cox and Anna Murby, who have each experienced a fair degree of personal tragedy, and who clearly demonstrated that BBC local radio really does produce some intelligent, incisive and extremely articulate DJs. I could have talked to them all day. Anna told me to get cracking on writing some more diary entries so I hope she appreciates the fact that this is the second one I've written in the last two days.

I have to prepare myself for an interview with The Daily Express now. I think they are going to do a big, colour feature on Thursday, and I can only pray that the picture looks halfway decent. I was supposed to be pictured in a pretty skirt, but when it came to finding a pair of pretty, pointy shoes to go with my chosen outfit, my shoe cupboard was bare. I felt ashamed; I had a snapper and a make-up girl both looking at me like I was some kind of freak. Bateman could have drawn a cartoon of the moment, and called it 'The girl who didn't have any shoes to match her skirt.' Oh, the shame. I ended up in my usually garb of smart jeans and Jermyn Street shirt. It's what I feel most comfortable in, but I would have loved to have looked really pretty. When the photographer had left I went upstairs with Rosie and took a look at my shoe collection. Woeful is the only word that can be used to describe it. I do have my FM boots, but they don't really go with a pretty summer skirt. I have some Bally loafers circa 1985, which are as good as new, because although I don't buy shoes very often, when I do I try to buy the best I can afford and I really look after them.

My father taught me to polish my shoes when I was still at school, and I immediately recognised the importance of properly polished footwear. Shiny shoes make you feel good about yourself, and the process of polishing is very good for the soul. Buffing is good for you, it makes the leather come to life, makes you feel smart, and sets you up for the day. I've always loved the transformation that takes place in leather when you show it a bit of care and attention and when I was younger I restored a collection of a dozen leather-on-oak gun cases for an antique dealer friend of mine. The most battered case was the one that I took the most time on, and the dry, cracked surface of the leather eventually came up like a beautiful piece of walnut veneer. It had life and it had beauty, and today it sits beneath a table in my study. The brass studs gleam in the sunlight and the surface of the case is as handsome as any piece of furniture.

Leather can last a lifetime, and for this reason I like my shoes to have substance. I went shopping with Rosie last week in an effort to remedy the paucity of appropriate footwear in my closet. We took a stroll through Wimbledon village and saw lots of frivolous, dainty shoes. I picked them up, looked them over and put them down again. I like my shoes to be well constructed, and if they look like they're going to fall apart after a couple of outings then they aren't for me. Rosie found a pair of shoes in the sale that fitted her perfectly, much to my delight. They are pretty, velvet and pointy and she's hardly taken them off since we got home. The moment she tried them on I immediately recognised something; she'd had a kind of epiphany, she was going to grow up be one of those women who has a squillion pairs of shoes, all equally dainty and equally impractical. Not like her dear old mother, who is an embarrassment to the footwear industry.

I felt intimidated by the pinched, severe ladies in L.K. Bennet, I felt them looking at me and I'm sure they knew that they would be wasting their breath trying entice me with any of their kitten heel flimsies. Pity poor Rosie, having to trail around the shops with a mother who owns one pair of pretty evening shoes and six pairs of Timberland boots; Rosie has such a love of fashion and spent this morning designing dresses in the style of Pucci. I think she should run away from Timberland boot camp and ask my friend Jemma to adopt her. Jemma really loves shoes, and after making a purchase, has to drive home with her strappy sandals sitting on the dashboard in front of her, just so she can admire them all the way home.

But I will find my pretty shoes. I know exactly what I want and when I see them, I'll buy them. If I see two pairs, then I'll buy them. I will make my daughters proud and I will rectify the woeful lack of appropriate footwear in my closet. And next time a photographer asks me to model a pretty skirt, I'll be able to ask, 'Which shoes would you like me to wear with it? I have at least two pairs that would go perfectly.'


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