I’ve been searching for a legacy and maybe I’ve found one in my name

My weekly highlight is attending Maggi Hambling’s painting masterclass. This tribe of artists fills any void I might otherwise have in my life (how long have you got?) On Thursday, our workspace officially became named the "Maggi Hambling Studio", and we cheered our mentor and melted when she said we were her family.

It’s nice to have something in your name. I once had a yellow rose named after me – the "Anneka" rose. It was my father’s proudest moment. He must have bought 25 bushes. God knows where they ended up as he lived in a flat. Anyway, discontinued – the rose and my father.

The Anneka lion cub at London Zoo was a fleeting tourist attraction. Now dead. Even my Madame Tussauds statue has been melted down. There I was one moment, swaying from a rope ladder in the foyer, the first thing bemused Japanese tourists saw, their introduction to British cultural life. Then, just as suddenly, gone.

My body’s been made into Kim Kardashian’s bottom, but it's the fate of the head that's the truly upsetting part. I think it’s on a shelf in Wookey Hole, along with Bill Clinton and Dirty Den from Eastenders.

I’m not joking. Google and you’ll see long shelves of decapitated heads. It’s like the prop room for The Handmaid’s Tale. I suppose they keep them somewhere safe in case any of these figures surge back into national treasuredom, then just gorge out a few wrinkles, loosening up the wax so it droops.

But do you see the lack of success I have with legacy? Except, except... at home I have a file, “Baby Annekas”, full of babies named after me in the Eighties and Nineties, along with letters from their parents, who were complete strangers. Now, I’m thinking all those Annekas must be out there somewhere. Surely that counts as legacy?

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Madame Tussauds.