These diaries were lost when I moved from my modest council estate home back to my parents’ equally modest home in Ashby de la Zouch. After the events of Saturday, 24 November 2001, when I was dragged out of my bed at 4a.m. by an over-enthusiastic policeman citing David Blunkett’s anti-terrorism laws, I could no longer return home. My neighbours informed me that after I had been taken away to be questioned, people in white forensic suits took away every piece of paper in large sacks.

After my release I asked for my 1999-2001 diaries, but was told that the police were hanging on to them should any charges be brought against me, Mohammed and his brother, Imran. Then last week I answered the door of the renovated pigsty where I now live to find a policeman holding my diaries, which were inside a transparent plastic bag.

These diary entries have appeared in the Guardian previously, having been hi-jacked by a woman fraudster called Sue Townsend. She has made quite a lucrative living passing herself off as me. I know where she lives – I have been to her house and rung her doorbell but she refuses to come to the door. Once I saw her through the front window. She was a large shape sitting in the corner of a gloomy room swigging from what looked like a bottle of Stolichnaya. Her garden is overgrown and her house is in disrepair – she has obviously fallen on bad times. I can’t say I’m sorry. She has been a parasite on my literary career for too long.