It was 1950, I had been out of the Army for three years, knew just about everything there was to know, was catering manager of the Arts Theatre in Leicester Square and had married my first wife in September. When I realised I had not made a will I also remembered that in my last years in the Army I was giving lectures to men in my company about “Preparing for Civilian Life” and wills were part of that discourse, prompted by pamphlets issued by the relevant authority: ABCA, I seem to recall, was its name - The Army Bureau of Current Affairs.

I thought back to the advice I had passed on: specify that this document overrides all previous wills, mention that you are of sound mind, put a date on the top and get a witness to sign it at the bottom, adding witness's address and occupation. No problem. In October 1950 I left everything to my wife, told her so at dinner; she was too well brought up to ask questions. In fact, “everything” then was under £100, my paternal grandfather's silk night-shirts, which my grandmother had given me as a 21st birthday present, and some extremely heavy, leather luggage nicked from a German factory that my regiment had “liberated” a week or two before VE Day.

Last week, 58 years, five children and 16 grandchildren later, my first wife (we remain together, I call her “my first wife” to keep her on her toes) asked whether I had made a will. Not for a while, I admitted, and determined to do it all over again. So, January 2008. Sound mind. Last will and testament; our Portuguese Maria to be the witness.

Things have changed, the way they do. My fortune has increased. I lost Sigmund's night-shirts and the heavy leather luggage, but have quite a lot of wine, the odd painting, a letter from Margaret Thatcher and a picture of me with Muhammad Ali. I took my children around our flat in turns to glean who wanted to have what when we died. They all wanted all the wine, my wife's desk, my collection of cookery books and the same picture, so that will be no trouble. When it came to money, all are hugely well heeled and what I leave, especially a fifth share of what I leave, is likely to be an embarrassment: what they tip the milkman at Christmas.

In olden days, when I was invited to become a godfather, something that happened while I still had prospects, I would ring my stockbroker, ask him which decent shares paid their dividends on my godchildren's birthdays and sit back knowing that they would feel themselves annually remembered. It was, I thought, a brilliant idea until shares I had purchased announced “rights” issues; the parents paid, the shares went into liquidation, the parents blamed me and the godchildren stopped sending Christmas cards.

So, like Nigella Lawson, though for different reasons, I shall leave no money to my rich children but have them think well of me by setting up a trust for their children. Between three and ten £50 notes to be sent to them on their birthdays between ages 11 and 17, and then a proper lump sum for comforts on their gap year. I told my accountant, who shook his head. “Governments are suspicious of trusts” was his verdict. It would cost a lot to set up, difficult to administer, liable to taxation.

I suggested we buy computer programs dealing with options for distributing the proceeds of testaments, of which I presume there were many.

He said there were not.

So while I remain alive, my time will be principally devoted to collecting new banknotes (nothing celebratory about receiving used currency), stamp licking, envelope sealing and missing due birth dates because of holidays or visits to undertakers. It made me understand why some people leave all their money to the Battersea Dogs Home.

Sir Clement Freud is an author, broadcaster, chef and former MP

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