I didn’t need the alarm to wake me up this morning. So keen was I to discover the joys that life had in store for me, I practically cart-wheeled out of bed at 5am. As soon as the usual semi-turgidness had subsided, I enjoyed a lavish wee-wee in the wardrobe. There wasn’t too much pain as I passed water and I didn’t even have that much of a hangover either. Marvellous.

Having doused my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes liberally with Bombay Sapphire, I strode purposefully to my garden office, and started the computer. As usual, I launched Outlook – eager to discover just how cheap Taiwanese Viagra had become overnight.

The computer scudded and clunked through its usual machinations, invisibly indexing the parade of pixels and battalions of binary amongst the clinical efficiency of the hard-drive. I dreamily gazed out of the office window to survey the acres of finely honed topiary on my impressive estate.

Imagine my surprise, however, when a pigeon flew straight into the glass pane in front of me with an impressive thud, not to mention an immediate shedding of several feathers. Naturally, I rushed outside in a state of advanced concern and cradled the poor creature carefully in my palm.

My eldest daughter (who had just finished filming a Persil Fairy advertisement – directed by George Clooney – in the grounds of our obscenely beautiful Manor), rushed over to survey the commotion.

As the tressles of spun golden curls that framed her face, tumbled chaotically about her alabaster skin, she looked up at me and implored ‘What happened to the poor birdy, Daddy?’ I brushed away the glinting diamond of a tear that had just formed in her eye and soothingly told her: ‘He just twatted himself on the noggin, love’.

With hasty despatch, we wrapped the bird in a velveteen shroud, and carefully, using a handy pipette, introduced a mixed tincture of milk and brandy between his parched lips (NB: I know that pigeons don't technically have lips, but just drop it, OK?). Then, my youngest daughter, who is actually far too young to speak, declared that we really ought to name the creature ‘Gideon’. And so it was.

As bad-luck would have it, the Ferrari 250 SWB wouldn’t start, so we had to use the helicopter to go the Vet next door. It was a tense few minutes, but we assuaged our worry by singing hymns and strumming an acoustic guitar (my eldest has a marvellous aptitude for harmonising my root notes with a third-above, and even has a three-octave range).

Three hours later, and after some fairly intensive micro-surgery, we emerged blinking and emotionally-drained into the sunlight; Gideon had been fixed, and as our Gracious Lord is my witness, I swear that I saw what looked like the beginnings of a crooked smile form upon that cheeky little beak. Gideon had found a home, and in the strangest of circumstances, we appear to have gained a new family member.

‘Can we keep him Daddy?’ chorused my daughters. I threw my head back and laughed like a nutter. ‘Of course we can!’ I bellowed majestically. And it was indeed official.

It was only later, whilst dining on Lobster Thermidor with my wife (who is a Supermodel), that we discovered that Gideon had been bestowed with a secret, magical power that enabled him to pick the winning lottery numbers every single week, ad infinitum, which was a rather unexpected but nonetheless cushy bonus.

Has it been a busy day? You bet. Will I be rewarded? Well I couldn’t possibly comment or dare to dream, but doubtless my real reward will come when I'm accepted into the Kingdom of Heaven, where in all probability, I’ll end up advising our Lord on effective Below Market Value buying strategies and creative property acquisition. Heck, I may even run a few seminars and flog some Off-Plan developments on the back of it.

Please do find a moment in every day to whistle. It really will lift your spirits immeasurably.

I love you guys.

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