Lauren Laverne's diary

I found Jesus in my shoe yesterday. It's always the last place you look, isn't it? In this instance it was the Playmobil infant Christ, which had become separated from the Nativity set that my four-year-old's godmother gave him for Christmas (he'd got very into the Nativity having secured the pivotal role of Shepherd 2 in his nursery production). I think it was The Baby (my one-year-old) who had put Jesus there, though. For some reason, babies - as a race - are mysteriously intent on filling up all the tiny gaps in the world with other things, almost as if they're shoring us up with extremely small sandbags. Maybe they know something we don't. It's not the first time Playmobil Jesus has encountered trouble. He was eaten by a dinosaur last week, in scenes that could have been taken directly from a Creationist's nightmare. The four-year-old is into dinos, so we take him to the Natural History Museum. A great time is had by all; although we leave agreeing with his assertion that most dinosaurs would be awesomer with the simple addition of wheels.

I've been writing a lot recently, which is lovely. Slaving over a hot laptop is pleasingly quiet and creative - very much like writing songs, which is what I did before I started presenting. People seem to think I must miss being in a band. I don't, although I don't always say so if they ask (it's not usually what they want to hear). I had a great time but I much prefer broadcasting. I fell into the job after being a guest on a few TV shows and - although it took me a while to stop feeling like I was pretending to do it and actually learn how - I've always loved it. TV, radio and writing are different branches on the same tree. I'm incredibly lucky that I get to do them all, but it can get a bit hectic.

At the moment I'm doing my daily BBC Radio 6 Music show, writing two magazine columns, working on a book and on the new series of 10 O'Clock Live for Channel 4, which starts next month. If I've had a really busy day, my favourite thing is to lose myself in a really fantastic film or, better yet, an absorbing box set. Mr L and I have just completed The Wire, which has left our domestic slang peppered with Baltimore slang ('Imma re-up on Lenor in the Ocado this week, a'igt?'). I imagine things will calm down eventually. We thought we were mobsters for a time after The Sopranos. I was Uncle June (obviously).

On Thursday I hosted the launch of Oxfam's Get Together campaign, for International Women's Day on 8 March. The charity is inviting women to have a do with their friends - be it a pub quiz, bake sale, swishing party - to raise money for women and girls in poverty. I'm impressed by the launch attendees' ingenuity. Initial ideas for Get Togethers include a celebrity car boot sale, a sponsored book group and a quiz chaired by the fabulous Brix Smith-Start and her pug Gladys (London Fashion Week's newly appointed Canine Correspondent) who both attend the event. I'm delighted by their generous support for the campaign but can't help being jealous of Gladys' new gig. To be fair, she knows her stuff - she's as excited about Moschino transferring to LFW as I am. My friends and I plan to hold a nocturnal Mad Hatter's Tea Party. We've yet to hammer out the details, except that it will involve madness, hats, tea and partying and eventually some money for Oxfam. Wish us luck.

At the weekend my other half and I headed out for dinner with some friends. Now that our youngest is sleeping properly (I say 'properly'; he's usually upside-down ten seconds after you tuck him in, but he's reliably unconscious for extended periods, which is good enough), we have been able to occasionally, thrillingly, leave the house. Our adventures are usually food- and chat-based but this time we ended up at a gig at Cecil Sharp House in Regent's Park (home of the English Folk Dance and Song Society). Very different from the Bacchanalian revels that were a feature of our early courtship. Just as well - that was ten years ago and even then I had neither the centre of gravity (I'm mostly legs) or the alcohol tolerance for that kind of caper. There was a 'mums on the razz' incident with a few female friends recently, which ended up with me falling down some stairs, then holding my bleeding finger up like ET and balefully requesting a taxi. I think that was my big night out for 2012.
International Women's Day is on 8 March (oxfam.org.uk)