You'll never leave home again

My husband came home last week to what looked like a scene in a bad French comedy. Jerry Ramdass, my Dutch hairstylist, with a half dozen rings in his ear lobe and a Mohawk coif, was frantically trying to weave bits of coloured paper through my hair at the same time as the chiropodist, Natalie Lyne, was going at my corn with the equivalent of a small drill and Fabiola, the Spanish manicurist sent over by Dstress direct, was patiently trying to pin down one of my hands.

Meanwhile, Ian Brown of Intasel, a computer consultancy company that installs, fixes and, more importantly, rescues computers from the wrath of their owners, was trying to revive my laptop after my six-year old had stepped on it (on purpose) just minutes before a story was due. All of these characters were crowded around my desk where I continued to work even though the phone was now covered in bleach and the sound of the foot drill was interfering with my ability to take notes with my one remaining hand.

According to the office of National Statistics, there are now 650,000 Britons working from home, 424,000 of them women, many of them, like me, with children, a husband and a house to look after (not to mention themselves). You don't have to be a Harvard MBA to figure out that every hour spent driving to the gym, locating a parking space at Sainsbury's or hanging out at the beauty salon waiting for the colour finally to set is one hour less spent earning. "Time famine" has spawned a whole new service industry. A St Tropez tan used to mean walking around the streets looking like a scarecrow. Now, thanks to agencies like Urban Bliss and Dstress direct, one can enjoy looking ridiculous in the privacy of one's own home.

Jerry Ramdass used to work at the Harvey Nichols salon, but now he specialises in busy women like me who would rather have constant bad hair days than waste an afternoon in a salon. Not only does he bring the salon to you (he charges £70 for highlights and £40 for haircuts; he also does blow-drys for special occasions) but he's happy to do the kids at the same time and keep cutting even if you have to take an important call.

Getting beauty treatments at home used to be a hit-and-miss affair but now two Manhattan-style companies are dispatching therapists and beauticians to the home as quickly as minicabs. Dstress direct, founded 18 months ago by Canadian masseuse Meghan Tilson, offers a range of treatments from shiatsu, Thai massage and reflexology to yoga, personal training and Pilates, plus manicures and pedicures (prices from £25-60). "We can't impress clients with fluffy robes and architecture," says Dstress's Tilson, "so our people have to be the best."

Urban Bliss, which opened nine months ago, is run on similar principles (at similar prices). The objective of co-founder and former masseuse Annie Penny is to send over any one of several complementary practitioners (they even have a naturopath and a "Space Cleaner") within hours of the distress call.

Ever since Tesco and Sainsbury's went on-line, it's been easy to get food delivered. The problem is: what do you do with it once it's there? Skye Gyngell, an Australian chef who trained in France, takes the hassle of cooking away from the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow, Hugh Grant and Nigella Lawson. Gyngell will cook at home, do "drop-offs" (for cheats like me) and weekend cooking for £60 upwards (£250 for a dinner of 12, plus the price of the food).

I used to venture out as far as the corner flower stall. Now I just wait for Deborah Feldman of Art of Flower to deliver a bundle fresh from the market. She turns the ordinary bouquet into an installation (she studied at the Courtauld Institute) and regularly does for trendy offices and dinner parties what the Brit pack do for Saatchi (weekly arrangements from £55).

Though my nanny does most of the domestic chores, there is one thing she can't do - type 60 words a minute. When I broke my arm, I enlisted the help of Part-Time Careers, a brilliant agency that sends either young mothers or retired women (many of whom have phenomenal CVs) to your home to do bookkeeping, accounting and general PA stuff. For £15.25 an hour, they do whatever needs doing (in my case that meant taking dictation as I paced the room nervously), which includes committing 10 years-worth of messy Filofax entries on to a hard disc.

Of course, that can only happen once you have a snazzy office system installed by the likes of IT experts Ian Brown of Intasel or Clive Marshall of PC Computer Problems. These two savvy businessmen do for the home worker what those highly paid CTOs (chief technology officers) do for the office (for £90 and £85 an hour, respectively). When the ADSL goes Awol, their people come running over. "We're the Samaritans of the computer world," says PC Computer's Nick Megan.

Sometimes we home workers get so busy that we forget to dress. The Cross (the fashionable Notting Hill boutique) is used to it. Its star sales manager, Halima Bines, is now available for freelance wardrobe consultations (for £40 per hour). She'll gladly bring a bundle over and offer some indispensable personal on-site advice (she comes back several days later to pick up the rejects).

Those more accustomed to couture call Louise Verity. The former fashion designer, with clients such as George Michael, arrives on her bicycle, sewing machine in tow, and either whips up a little wedding dress (as she has been known to do) or restitches existing fashion garments (£40 per hour plus a £30 call-out charge). While she's there, she'll also mend the curtains and drum up some scatter cushions. "I'm like Mary Poppins," she says.

If only I could get my accountant to take a leaf out of her book.

Distress direct 020 7727 0490; Skye Gyngell 020 8743 1004; Intasel 020 8423 4000; Louise Verity 020 8964 2426; Urban Bliss 020 8871 2223; PC Computer Problems 020 7371 0201; Deborah Feldman 020 7792 7982; Part-Time Careers 020 7437 3103; Natalie Lyne 07976 382 267; The Cross 020 7727 6760; Jerry Ramdass 07799 334 777; Halima Bines 07769 973 598.