WHAT with it being the Diamond Jubilee and everything, the Queen must be rushed off her feet and so it’s no surprise she is advertising for a new servant to help keep everything up together.

According to the ad, the flunky’s job will entail ‘high quality cleaning, presentation and guest care in the post holder’s designated area, consisting of the personal rooms of the Royal Family, their guests’ suites, State Apartments, cloakrooms, staff and office accommodation, staircases and corridors’. Naturally commentators have boiled this down to the appointee having to draw the royal bath. (Royal baths are always drawn, never run, you understand.) Leaving aside the wonderfully Downton-esque images this conjures up – although I’m sure Her Maj must be a far less infuriating prospect as an employer than the ghastly Lady Cora – it does make me wish I had the money to do likewise; advertise for a person who would attend to all the annoying, boring, yukky jobs I don’t wish to bother myself with Chez Faith.

I can see it now… someone to change the loo rolls the MINUTE the holder becomes empty. Someone to stand patiently beside the door flap for the odd 30 minutes, while the Enormous Ginger Cat decides whether he wants to go outside or not and then to open the flap for him to do so and repeat the whole rigmarole again, ten minutes later, while he debates whether or not to come in.

My servant must be willing to clean up entrails (including the bright green bits, whatever they are) of creatures slaughtered by the EGC, and to pursue half-mauled birds around rooms to save them from certain death. And naturally they must be able to remove arachnids from bathtubs, beds and ceilings.

He or she must be willing to undertake the Augean task that is our paper filing; three giant baskets of ‘stuff to do’ in which is deposited what looks like an entire decade’s worth of bills, Budgen flyers and Boden catalogues, but which may also contain passports, banking information and a large Premium Bond win for all I know.

They must be able to instantly diagnose and then fix the problem when the computer makes a weird bleeping noise or the DAB radio makes that horrible bubbling noise.

They must naturally be able to turn on the new TV because I still haven’t got the hang of how to do it myself but they must NOT be able to mend broken-down X-Boxes because that’s the only way I am ever going to be free of having Violent Idiot IV reverberating throughout the house, while my youngest plays it instead of doing his homework.

My servant must be able to sew, darn and cook a mean baked Alaska. He or she must not be fazed by the teenage boys’ underwear which festoons the area round the laundry basket, or by the Reading Festival Shoes, as worn by my eldest to the concert two years ago, and still lurking in our porch; still caked in mud.

The lucky applicant must keep me supplied with large mugs of builder’s tea and market traders’ coffee (I’m not posh, you know) as well as bake excellent lemon drizzle cake. They must be willing to take the EGC to the vet (I will supply the chair and whip) and the library books back to the library when they are four months overdue, and post the movie back to Lovefilm, and fill in complicated official forms, and do the ironing, and remind me of distant relatives’ birthdays, and remove the scary rotten veg from the back of the fridge and Hoover round the edges of ALL the room – not just the bits I can see – and put my clothes on the radiator so they are all nice and warm to wear in the morning and...you get the picture.

Naturally, if this servant could look like Daniel Craig I will be more than happy. Especially if, like Her Majesty, I can get someone to do all this for less than £15,000 a year. • This column has been going for a month now and so it falls to me to make a few belated thank-yous to all the lovely people who have written or emailed to say they are enjoying it. You are too kind.