Bob Dylan holds a special place in my heart. I believe it may be the bottom of the right ventricle, just a tiny corner of it, but it's been a long time since I did biology.

For all I know, he's migrated to my gall bladder, which would explain the uncomfortable sensation I've been getting after eating. Some of his songs can be a bit indigestible, Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle like a bowl of soup' being one of them, which makes you wonder what he puts in his mulligatawny.

I thought I would share this with you since Bob and I have this special relationship and it was the freewheelin' one's 65th birthday last week.

Tips on how to celebrate the occasion, which I culled from website, included sending a personal greetings card to Robert Zimmerframe sorry, Zimmerman dusting off the old tambourine and giving out free doughnuts in the office (spread the love'), although I think they might have confused him with Homer.

Anyhow, I did my own bit of celebrating on Wednesday by attending a gig called Bob's Bus Pass at the City Screen basement bar. If one was being picky, the name was a trifle misleading since both sexes now get concessionary travel at 60, but hey, that's cool, man, as we cats like to say. Besides which, the bus angle, given the controversy over the ftr, was unusually well received.

My thing with Bob goes back years. It's my husband's fault. When I first met him, nearly 15 years ago (the anniversary of First Sight approaches; it should, more accurately, be called the anniversary of Short Sight, as I wasn't wearing my glasses at the time, which explains how I managed to fall for a man in an anorak), he kept his Dylan obsession pretty quiet.

Then, on Valentine's Day, I received a heart-shaped balloon bearing the message, Tangled Up In You, which was so sweet I sent him a present back. He was working in a government office that happened to be on special alert, or whatever they call it, at the time. They thought it was a suspicious package and almost evacuated the building.

Our romance survived both the Civil Service's attempt to blow up my Valentine's gift and the tortured Dylan puns (A Simple Twist Of Kate was another one) and, five years later, we married. It was only afterwards, when the husband said to me, I love your hair. It's just like Bob Dylan's' that I realised, as Princess Di once remarked, that there were three of us in this marriage.

Actually, there are four of us now, since the daughter, bless her little England socks (it's England everything at the moment: cap, wristband, pyjamas, even stick-on tattoos, which go down well in the ballet class), is named after a Bob Dylan song. It's a classical name, beautiful but unusual, and although people occasionally mispronounce it things could have turned out worse. I was writing novelisations of EastEnders at the time and she nearly ended up being Tiffany Bianca.

As names go, it's not nearly as outrageous as many celebrity baby names, the variations on which have become a competitive sport. Geri Halliwell has just named her new baby Bluebell Madonna. Then there's Gwynnie's girl, Appley Dappley, or something like that. Jonathan Ross has a kid called Honey Bee Mine hang on, I think that's something from Lush and Jamie Oliver has Daisy Boo. Can't you just hear the knock-knock jokes?

It's not just celebrities that are at it. Neveah, which is heaven' spelled backwards, is rising in popularity as a girl's name in the US, while Madison as in Avenue, New York which is heaven spelled out in Giorgio Armani, remains one of the top three.

I jest, of course. Madison, now a unisex name, is Old English for son of a mighty warrior', and looking that up lead me to an interesting diversion into the meaning of names, gods and goddess ones Freya, Maia, Rhiannon being particularly popular. Did you know that Nike was not, in fact, the patron saint of professional athletes but the Greek goddess of victory?

That's little comfort to the poor, exploited workers in Asia who are currently churning out football boots and replica kit and all manner of stuff from 7am to 11pm every day without a break to feed our World Cup fever.

A recent report by Oxfam revealed that, despite paying lip service to ethical trading, top brands Nike, Puma, Adidas and Fila are behaving outrageously'. Given that JJB Sports is currently the daughter's Most Favourite Shop, I shall be thinking twice before we buy anything else.

Coming full circle, it was Oxfam, too, that benefited from the proceeds of Bob's Bus Pass (a great evening after a wobbly start), and poet Rory Motion, who performed there, came up with this Dylanesque tribute to the charity.

Oxfam, oh Oxfam, you're a mystical shop/What drives me to you is what drives me insane/I still can remember the bargains I got/At the bottom of Monkgate in the drizzle and the rain.' And if you recognise that tune, you'll know what we called our daughter