THE thing about my job is that so many folk ask what I hope to do... eventually.

“Don’t you have ambition to work on the Nationals? Don’t you fancy a stint at the BBC?” they cry.

Well, I DID give radio a go, as it happens, as I was telling my colleague the other day.

“I had my own show, interviewing people.”

“Like celebrities? Wow. Who did you interview?”

“The local mayor, a ranger and someone who had written a poem,” I said, laughing my head off.

“Oh, but I've done an interview with Endemol TV because I was an expert in black cats,” I said.

“Expert?” He laughed. “Expert!”

“Yes and they invited me to go to Dartmoor for a week.”

“So what happened then?”

“Well. I couldn’t go because the Teen was tiny then. In the end I ended up making a terrible advert. You know, doing the voice and reading a script. It was awful.”

“An advert?”

“Yes. I had to do a sexy voice to sell jewellery. The fat, bearded man kept telling me to give it more sex appeal take after take.”

My colleague could not contain himself with mirth.

“How much did you get paid for that debacle?”

“Twenty five quid”.