I'M embarrassed to admit this, being an author, but my child does not read.

It's not that she can't; she's just not motivated to pick up a book herself. This is despite being read to every single night since she was a baby by whichever of us is less busy (a competitive sport involving protracted negotiations over who does the washing up and plea bargaining with the Dyson).

Jacqueline Wilson, who finishes her stint as Children's Laureate today, recommends that the bedtime story ritual continues until kids reach 11, but was it possible we had read to her too much and taken away the incentive?

I was beginning to despair when the daughter discovered The Toilet of Doom (This is, coincidentally, something I've just had to deal with too; luckily a man from Dyno-Rod came round with a super-sized plunger and fixed it).

If you're not up to speed with contemporary children's literature, you could be forgiven for thinking The Toilet Of Doom is an Indiana Jones remake by the Hot Fuzz team. Actually, it's a Jiggy McCue story by Michael Lawrence and it's hilarious. Daughter raced through it in record time and, flushed with success (sorry), insisted we get the next one.

She's now reading The Killer Underpants and has set her sights on another called Nudie Dudie. It's not Swallows And Amazons, but at least it's a step up from the Argos catalogue, which she took up to bed the other night (I drew the line at reading aloud about the Kenwood Frothie Deluxe).

I read an article recently by child psychologist Dr Tanya Byron (the resident expert on BBC Three's Little Angels and House Of Tiny Tearaways), in which she extols the power of reading. Not only does it make you smarter' by increasing your vocabulary and general knowledge, but it gives you the tools to express yourself and, crucially, promotes positive self-esteem.

As Byron points out, this has huge implications for how children grow up feeling about themselves, particularly those who don't read or get read to and are brought up in homes dominated by TVs and electronic games. If it's a choice between Just William and SSX Tricky, there's no contest. Virtual snowboarding wins every time.

Still, there's hope. My 16-year-old nephew Dan, he of the heavy rock persuasion, stayed with us over Easter and for the first time ever he had his nose buried in a book, and a substantial tome at that. "You should read this, it's excellent," he said, passing me a well-thumbed copy of Motley Crue: The Dirt.

This from a boy who lived for his Xbox and last told me, "I don't read books". He's matured a lot too and is a more confident person. That Tommy Lee, I could kiss him. Well, almost. Dan subsequently disappeared into the bathroom to dye his hair Rock God Blond, but it went ginger instead.

I've done a survey of what we're all reading in this house at the moment, and the most referred to book appears to be All About Your Guinea Pig. A classic of its genre, it contains some useful translations of guinea-pig speak. Apparently, "chut" means "This looks interesting", although I think our three are saying, "Dandelions today, fellas. Waay-hey!"

The husband is deep into Night Watch, a Russian novel about vampires set in modern-day Moscow, while top of the pile on my side of the bed is a book entitled Are Men Necessary?, which a publisher gave to me because she was proud of the jacket design (a pair of walnuts).

I'm enjoying the book, which is by New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, because it has some cracking lines in it (on the decline in Feminism between the 1970s and now: "You go, girl!" had downshifted to "You go lie down, girl".'). However, despite Byron's assertion, I'm not convinced that reading it is doing much for my self-esteem.

According to Dowd, the more high-achieving a woman is, the less likely men are to be attracted to them because their delicate egos are threatened, so they go for ditzy, fluffy, non-sarcastic girlies instead.

The husband admits this is true and says men really like ditziness, which explains why Colin Firth and Hugh Grant were fighting over that annoying Bridget Jones, something I'd never got at all.

It also explains why the husband sticks with me, even though I can be ever so slightly sarcastic at times and he has to retreat into escapist horror. Last week I was so ditzy I thought a vandal had stolen all the hub caps on our car and rang the garage in a panic, only to discover that it had never had any in the first place.

Adorable or what? Plus, I have fluffy hair. Eat your heart out, Bridget.