It is universally acknowledged that the British aristocracy is peopled with inbred, chinless twits who range from the mildly eccentric to the utterly bonkers. Being a member of this illustrious class, I can categorically confirm that all of the above is true.

By all accounts, the late Baroness Strange lived up to the reputation of her social stratum by changing her will on her deathbed on a seeming whim. It has now emerged that as she lay bedridden and dying at her Perthshire castle, in March 2005, she summoned witnesses at 4am and left her entire £3m estate to the youngest of her six children.

No such shock awaits me. My dad [the Marquess of Queensbury] has assured me that I will get his cooking pots - "Because you are such a good cook." Flattering. If I play my cards right, maybe he'll throw the Hoover in for good measure.

This is actually not a bad share for, true to his lordly condition and historical imperative, he has diligently sired offspring for some 50 years. He has a great many children, ranging in age from six to 50. The mathematics are simple: there will not be an awful lot to go round and, quite frankly, it's not something I want to think about too deeply anyway.

Even if there weren't so many of us, pickings would be decidedly thin because Dad himself inherited practically nothing. His forebears gambled and frittered away more or less the whole caboodle. Sod's law or what? I have the luck to be born the daughter of a marquis and then look around in bewilderment saying, "Where's the bloody silver spoon?" Not a single monogrammed specimen in sight. Castle? Gone. Stately home? You must be joking. The family seat is a modest terraced house in west London.

The story goes that Dad went to collect what was left of his inheritance on his bicycle. The police saw this disreputable-looking youth cycling along with a Rolex watch and a mink coat under his arm, so stopped and questioned him. In those days, class deference was still horribly ingrained; it's not hard to imagine the faff it caused when they found out that the lad on the bike was his lordship.

Of all the nutty aristocratic families to be born into, mine has a claim to be nuttiest of all - a long line of dissolute and decadent fruitcakes precedes us. On top of that, they left us hanging our heads because of poor old Oscar Wilde. What are we left with? All we can point to with pride is the Queensberry Rules.

As for why the peerage is such a national treasury of eccentrics, I suspect that it might be that class, privilege and wealth gives you complete freedom to be yourself. And that, no doubt, is a double-edged sword.