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For the last 16 years, I've had my very own stalkers following me wherever I go, whatever I do, day and night, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce whenever I need them. Thanks to money from the Independent Living Fund and social services, I've been able to employ these stalkers, or personal assistants, to do the things I cannot do for myself. Crucially, unlike home help care packages, I choose who works for me, what they do, how they do it and when.

Since 1992 I've employed 41 PAs, equating to 2.56 per year or more specifically, 4 Claires, 3 Louises, 2 Annas plus an assortment of Amandas, Pamelas and Sharons.

In my search for the perfect PA, I've interviewed over 300 people. Regardless of what I put in the advert, most applicants seem to have read: "Misfits, kleptomaniacs and do-gooders need only apply". Foolishly perhaps, I then invite these complete strangers into my home to interview them.

Under the section 'additional information', one prospective PA wrote on her application form that she was a medium. She wasn't referring to her clothes size, this woman saw dead people. In fact, she told me that during the interview there was a spirit behind the standard lamp in my living room. I didn't offer the job to either of them.

Because of the personal tasks involved, it's legal to specify the preferred gender in your advert. Despite requesting women only, however, I've had as many men apply. Some were perfectly pleasant, some were unnaturally interested in this 'personal' aspect of the job and some offered the kind of intimate care that social services never intended paying for.

Through more error than trial, I learnt early on as an employer what qualities I wanted and, more importantly didn't want, from a PA. I said thanks but no thanks to anyone who thought it would be rewarding, fulfilling and even humbling to 'help the handicapped'. I didn't care to employ anyone who wanted to care for me - that's something I'm lucky enough to receive from my friends and family. I felt sick when applicants turned up for the interview wearing a uniform, rubber gloves and a fob watch - I didn't realise that going to the toilet was a nursing task. But perhaps most painfully, I learnt that I don't want my PAs to be my friends or companions - I need them to assist me to get on with my life, not be my life.

Once you've found the right person for the job (or at least, picked the best of a bad bunch), then the hardest part of being an employer begins, i.e. managing your staff. After 16 years, I'm starting to get the hang of it but in the beginning, I had neither the experience to know what I wanted nor the confidence to ask for it.

I needed someone to assist me to go to the toilet but, who'd have thought it, I found I had a preferred way of having my knickers pulled up. My mum had helped me all these years and I liked her method. Unfortunately I didn't know how to tell my PA this discovery so every time I went to the loo, I said nothing, felt more and more frustrated and, since my PA wasn't a mind reader, she remained oblivious to what I actually wanted. The tension grew, the working relationship broke down and PA number 22 left unhappily.

In the early days, my turnover of personal assistants was particularly fast and furious. Some jumped but many were pushed. The first PA I sacked had taken a shine to my then boyfriend, another helped herself to my purse, another decided it would be amusing to put a box on my head, like a hat. As it slipped slowly down over my eyes, her fate was sealed. I uttered that ominous phrase: "Can I have a word...". She cried, I cried and then my dad, acting as bouncer, walked her to the nearest bus stop. Thankfully, my turnover has slowed down somewhat since then.

Being a PA employer hasn't been easy but it's definitely getting easier. I now have two fantastic women, one whose been with me for 4 years and the other for 6. I don't know if they've stayed because I'm a good employer or because of the annual pay rise, but either way I'm just happy that neither of them has put a box on my head... yet.