IT must be nice to be a diva. I wonder if they've got any vacancies?

I don't mind starting at the bottom of the diva ladder with an entourage of about 50 - hardly big enough to be called an entourage at all really - and just the one miniature shitzu in my handbag.

I'm more than willing to work my way to the top. Or rather, I'm more than willing to give my entourage permission to work my way to the top for me.

The only downside I can see is that you have to have people lurking about all the time.

You open your wardrobe and there's a woman crouching in a corner ironing your pants (more starch in the gusset, Rosita; you know I like to rustle when I walk!').

Pop to the loo and there's a chap warming the seat and sprinkling rose petals in the sink (let's hope that water is 81.6 degrees this time, Diego; I would hate to have to beat one of your children again').

And if you so much as try to leave the house on your own, an entire SWAT team of bodyguards descends on guy ropes from the ceiling, bustles you into a stretch limo and whisks you off to your destination. Which is all right if you are going to the White House to perform for the president, but a bit annoying if you are nipping to the paper shop for a Twix.

These minor quibbles are more than made up for by the perks of divadom though. If I could only persuade the JobCentre to give me an application form, I'd be on the diva in-house training programme like a shot.

Maybe I should approach Barbra Streisand for a few tips when she comes to England this summer for the latest in a long line of her "last ever, definitely no more, not ever, ever, that's all folks" concerts tours (I think she now actually performs a never-to-be-repeated concert every second Wednesday and twice on Sundays).

Babs - as a wannabe Mini-D myself, I reckon I can just about get away with calling her that - beats Diana Ross to the title of Queen of the Divas by a short nose. She turned 65 last week, although I'm sure none of her staff has had the temerity to mention her age since about 1963, and is showing no signs of slowing down. She still works tirelessly for a whopping 20 days a year for a measly £46 million.

So what if she makes one or two small requests on her backstage rider? She works hard for a living, why shouldn't she expect a little bit of comfort in her old age? And anyway, a nice pair of slippers and a mug of Horlicks are hardly going to break the bank when you are raking in upwards of £200 a ticket, are they?

The five living room sets (no vinyl), ten floor lamps, 35 banquet tables, 150 folding chairs, 120 bath-sized towels, phalanx of guards "neatly dressed in dark jackets or blazers", metal detectors and unpickable locks on all doors might bite into the profits slightly, but so what?

A diva doesn't just turn up, belt out a few old favourites and bugger off. Her entire life is a performance - and that means off-stage as well as on.

Which is why I think I'm particularly suited to this line of work. I'm already a bit of a diva at heart.

You probably imagine I am a dowdy, suburban housefrau wandering about in flipflops and a tatty cardie. In fact I am actually dictating this column to my secretary Sebastian while floating on a life-size, blow-up George Clooney lilo in my infinity pool.

I would type the blummin' thing up myself of course, but there's so much starch in my knickers I can no longer sit down.

Rosita!