I wake to the dulcet tones of Mr Humphrys or Charlotte Green. Honestly, how bad can things be when Charlotte’s reading the news? I take tea in my jammies out to my office, a lovely wooden building 500 yards from the house. The chill wind blowing round your nether parts at 6am soon wakes you. The other morning it was terribly misty and I thought, “Either I’m not well or there’s a racehorse in my garden,” and indeed there was, so I found myself in my PJs, assisting with the corralling of a beautiful mare. My neighbour on the other side has two great white pigs. Even though I’m Danish and a massive fan of bacon, I’m rooting for them. The Tamworth Two are much on my mind.

I’ve always lived in the country. Not a city person at all. I spend so much time talking to people that at home I revel in solitude. Katharine Hepburn had a sign at the bottom of her driveway and it said: “Go Away”. I have a big five-bar gate, and although I like to think I’m one of the most accessible people in the country, when I’m done, I close it.

I love my village. I spent my childhood travelling, and it’s lovely to have found somewhere I belong. We built our house round an existing cottage, so it’s got an old heart. It’s very soothing, a tiny corner of Scandinavia, full of Nordic art. I’m anal about my books. They’re in alphabetical order, so I can immediately find, say, The Meaning of Flowers in Victorian Times. I’m very organised: keys, wallet, they all have a place — I hate wasting time looking for things.

I have an enormous number of jobs on. As well as The News Quiz and various columns, I’m writing a novel set in the Boer war. I have a hydraulic desk that goes up and down to accommodate my bad back, and it’s littered with toy soldiers. My head is off with the fairies. I’m terribly good on the minutiae of Boer uniform, and on the veldt, but ordinary stuff like crossing the road or picking out clothes, less good. Have to be reminded about that red/green-light thing quite a lot. My partner decides what I’m going to wear. I like white socks, but they’ve all gone to white-sock heaven.

I often forget to eat. My worst habit is putting a bowl of rice in the microwave with shredded ham on top. But since I’ve been rehearsing panto, I’ve enjoyed lunch. I love talking to the younger members of the cast. Fitting it in was a nightmare. I kept saying: “I can’t!” And they kept saying: “We’ll make it work!” And I’m so glad I did it. I’d forgotten how much I love being part of a company.

We rehearse in a room that looks like the sort of place old people play badminton in, and with a smell not dissimilar. I’ve set up a desk in the corner, so I’m up and down, learning to tap-dance and Highland-fling in between writing jokes about General Musharraf for The News Quiz. Not a big earner, Radio 4, but I love it. It’s my Achilles heel. We got a £5 increase this year. There was a long pause before I said to my agent: “Do you think per show or for the entire series?” And she said: “Do you know, darling, I’m not entirely sure.”

I’ve just recorded the I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue Christmas special. I was with a group of boys I consider to be the funniest people in the country. But I was the only girl. I do feel sad about that, and enormously responsible to represent women by saying: “We are funny, we can do this.” The problem is the comedy-club structure. You have to be able to subdue 400 drunks at midnight, and most women would rather be at home. I really miss Linda Smith. It used to be the two of us, and I ache for her to be there. Alan Coren once said: “Honest to God, I quite often forget you’re women…” Old buffer that he was, that was a great compliment. Humph [Lyttelton] makes me cry with laughter. The man is 86 and is a genius. A few years ago he and I played lovers in A Christmas Carol. He turned up last night and said: “What, no sex with you this year, Toksvig?”

I don’t get stressed about work any more, but I would really like more time with my kids. I’ve got three teenagers — Jessie, Megan and Teddie — who are my favourite people on the planet. My 17-year-old was going to a party the other day and instantly agreed 10.30 as a pick-up time. I said: “For goodness’ sake, you’re 17! You’re supposed to negotiate.” She said: “But Mum, you look tired.” Having two mums is not a problem. If you’re honest about everything, children understand. I’m going to sound like David Cameron, but I believe in lots of meals with candles and napkins and listening to them talk about their day.

I have Ovaltine every night and a catch-up with my partner. I've no skin-care regime at all. The secret is not to put products from cats’ bottoms on your face, but to live your life in a pure and simple way. I like a bit of property porn, but if I’m suffering from what I call “busy head”, I sit in bed impersonating the characters from bad American cop shows, which sends me off to sleep.

I’d love to retire from showing off. I went to Sudan last year and I saw what could be done. I’d like to set up radio stations in displaced people’s camps, so women could share news and health information. Actually, I’d like to retire, just so I’d have time to think.

But I’m not complaining. It’s a lovely life.

Toksvig is in Stephen Fry’s Cinderella at London's Old Vic until January 20

Interview by Caroline Scott. Portrait by Mark Guthrie

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