There are few representations of book publicists in art, so the film of Bridget Jones' Diary must be commended for that reason at least. In the book she was an editor, but the producers evidently thought that being a publicist offered more comedic possibilities. Go figure.

Anyway, I won't lie and tell you that my day to day life involves choosing between the relative charms of Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. However the film did get one thing right; the ubiquitous “Hello publicity?” that every publicist gabbles as they answer the phone.

A few years ago, you couldn't go more than a minute or two without hearing someone in the office snatch up a receiver and sing-song, “Hello publis-tee?” Back then it wasn't unusual to answer a call, spend five minutes on the phone to an editor, and then find five messages on your voicemail built up while taking the call. You'd return the first message, and while speaking to that person, you'd get three more.

Nowadays, with the increasing use of email, we spend more time tapping keys than dialling numbers, and one thing I miss is the weird and wonderful phone conversations that used to enliven the day.

My favourite, of course, must be the numerous people who clearly hadn't watched Bridget Jones. The conversation usually went as follows.

Me “Hello, publicity?”

Caller  “Oh hello Felicity.”

Me “I'm afraid it's Ruth.”

Caller “Oh, is Felicity there?”

Me “I'm terribly sorry, there is no Felicity. My name's Ruth. I work in publicity.”

Caller (very slowly, realising they are dealing with an idiot) “Well dear, if your name is Ruth, perhaps you shouldn't call yourself Felicity.”

Sometimes the mishearings were even stranger. A colleague at Chatto and Windus swears he had the following conversation.

Colleague: “Hello publicity?”

Caller “Hello, is that shutters and windows?”

Colleague  “Er, Chatto and Windus, yes.”

Caller “Yes, well I'd like to know – do you do doors?”

Other people did realise that they were calling a publisher but had a strange and lovely idea of the offices we work in. I've received calls asking to speak to Martin Amis, Salman Rushdie, Mr Secker (“or Mr Warburg”), Irene Nemirovsky, Jonathan Cape – and I love the picture of our office that this conjures up, with all these eminent writers and publishers (some long dead) milling about, chatting companionably as they work on their current tome. Martin Amis might push his manuscript across the desk for Fannie Flagg to take a decco. Mr Warburg would be bickering in the Cape office, still cross about Cape's decision to turn down Animal Farm. Nigella would obviously be in the tiny kitchen out the back, whipping up a batch of cupcakes. Mmmm....

I adore the idea of this perpetual literary tea-party, with the authors hunkered down under the desks of an evening. We'd cover them with jiffy bags and manuscript pages for the night, and let them out for the odd boozy lunch.

We get fewer calls now. People get in touch by email instead. The race is the same – by the time you've trotted to the third floor to find that elusive last proof of Gunter Grass for review, there are eighteen more unread emails in the inbox. Three of them with an ominous red ! And of course there are plenty of touching, funny and odd emails too. But somehow nothing beats the phone for the sheer strangeness, cheeriness and loveliness of the unexpected encounters.

The people who phone you up to say thank you for publishing a particular book. The call saying that your author has got that big interview. The reviewer who rings to rave about an undiscovered debut novelist – because right now, you and she are two of only a handful of people in existence who have read that book, and you know you're about to launch a comet across the sky. The unexpected and undeserved thanks for the most minor of acts – sending a link, finding a piece of information, forwarding an email.

Emails are easier in some ways – quicker to forward, quicker to delete. Sometimes quicker to answer. But they're often not as funny. Not as quirky. Not as immediate. Not as... well, not as random. And, after all, we are Random House.