LIFE leaves us facing so many questions. Why do the good die young? Is it morally defensible to kill innocent people to defend freedom? Where can I get a Harry Potter Lego castle at 4pm on Christmas Eve?

Crucial issues all. But where are the answers? Blowing in the wind, according to Bob Dylan, who would clearly make a lousy Citizens' Advice Bureau staffer.

One option is to dial 999. A report out this week revealed that a cheese-brained minority are still detaining emergency services operators with queries of astonishing banality. One woman rang up to say her friend had turned up drunk "so can she have an ambulance to get her home as she can't get a cab?"

Other callers called because they wanted to know where to find their keys, or their mobile phone number. A 31-year-old woman rang because she had sniffed deodorant. "She feels fine," the operator reported, "but she sniffed it by accident and is just worried."

This suggests two things. Firstly, there are a frightening number of people with nothing behind their eyes. These idiots should be denied access to keys, mobile phones or deodorant. (On second thoughts, best let them have the deodorant.)

Secondly, there is a genuine demand for instant answers. We are all struggling with questions both profound and trivial. But we can't be bothered to do any research for ourselves.

Places that purport to offer immediate answers do exist. On the Internet, you can go to the Ask Jeeves web page, ask.co.uk.

Yesterday, the posers testing Jeeves ranged from the trifling: "where can I find a doctor specialising in bone disease?"; to the deeply important: "which university boasts the most attractive female students?"

Alas, Jeeves is no oracle. Asked "why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?", he became terribly confused and tried to put me in touch with vets in East Anglia.

For queries about a particular product, you can always dial a customer service number. I did toy with the idea of ringing the Friskies Pet Care helpline on the pretence of asking about our moggies' diets before darting in with a supplementary: "Do cats go to heaven when they die? My three-year-old wants to know."

These are the hardest questions of all to answer, of course: the ones put by small children, with their reckless imaginations and uncurbed curiosity.

The Church likes to think that it has all the answers. But going to any religion for spiritual advice is like trusting a financial adviser who can only sell you a specific brand of insurance. Who knows best, Allah, Jesus or Buddha? Where is the 'Which? God' report when you need it?

More questions. It is time this Government gave us answers. Instant answers.

They should set up and staff a 24-hour hotline ready to satiate our every inquiry, taking the pressure off the 999 service. Dial 888 to get through to the all-knowing, emergency New Labourline.

I'd be first in the queue. So many questions, so little time. A random selection: Why are paper cuts so painful? Who buys installation art? Is David Jason the only actor available at Christmas? When will Parkinson ask a guest a difficult question? Did Prince Charles drink that pint of beer he was pictured with in last night's Evening Press? In one? When should you tip, and how much? Can you still buy postal orders? Whatever happened to tapioca? How much of my licence fee goes on Anne Robinson's salary? If Osama Bin Laden really is a multi-millionaire, why can't he afford a decent video camera? What does Iain Duncan Smith do again? My brain seems to have exploded: could you send an ambulance?