Monday

AM. Wild Weekend! Had dinner in fancy pants restaurant then clubbing and cocktails in the company of hangers on from The Apprentice. Had to listen to one of the women from the show blathering on about how she has ‘balls’ to rival any man’s. For feck sake, why do women in business feel like they need to have ‘balls’ to get ahead!? Thanks to a massive collective of ‘balls’ this country is in the shitter – time for everyone to get a fanny, that’s why I say.

PM.  Annoying Flatmate Laura complaining that I am spending too much money on socialising when my half of the rent is overdue – she didn’t seem too feckin bothered about it when I stumped up for take-away last night.

Tuesday

AM. Feeling irate. I earn my cash fair and square, I choose not to have a gaggle kids, a negative equity mortgage or a gas-guzzling car so I am free to spend my money how I wish. I refuse to rein myself in.

PM. Fuck, just logged on to bank account; time to rein myself in.

Wednesday

AM. Thinking about it, it’s no big deal. All I have to do is tighten my belt ever so slightly until the green shoots thingy kicks in. Shouldn’t be too long now.

PM. Off to the hairdressers. Was going to ask for a Cheryl Cole but given that I’m being sensible I will opt instead for a Myleene Klass. If that’s not being money conscious I don’t know what is.

Thursday

AM. Myleene not-so-bleedin Klass. Heather pointing out that I now look like Pam Ewing from Dallas. Yeah? Well at least I don’t look like Miss feckin Ellie! The latter comment sent her off crying. Can’t say anything to her anymore owing to her raging hormones and now the whole office hates me because I made a pregnant woman bawl.

PM. Top 5 80s TV shows: 1) Dallas. 2) Manimal (although was usually too scared to watch it). 3) Knight Rider. 4) Fame. 5) Diff’rent Strokes tied with Silver Spoons.

Friday

AM. AF Laura demanding rent and finances in a state. Downgraded this morning from a triple to a double chocolate muffin; things are bad. No option left but to buy a ticket for Euromillions.

PM. YES! Four numbers! Ich bin ten thousand euro richer! Get in! Will now head out and laud it over those Apprentice gits, how’s that for bollocks!

Monday

AM. Met new girl Eimear in the tea room this morning and had to listen to her mind-numbingly boring account of what she did with her family all weekend. Felt like shaking her and screaming; ‘I don’t feckin’ care if Saoirse broke Gavin’s Ben 10 action figure!’ If Eimear was a native American Indian she would be called Talks-About-Her Kids-Until-You-Want-To-Vomit-A-Lot. If she was a superhero her special skill would be boring people to death by a special ray of crap that pulses from her cavernous mouth, and if she was on the Dragon’s Den, her invention would be a special chip that you place into the brain of your enemy which renders them motionless and speechless so that you have no option but to listen to her dull kid-related stories.

To do: Avoid Eimear at all cost.

PM. Agh! Lucia just instructed me to go over editorial stuff tomorrow with Emer. Tried to fob this task off on to anybody possible, even Reg the ageing security guard, but alas, no success.

Tuesday

AM. Spent the whole morning putting off dealing with Eimear. Have to get it over with some time… right after this choccie muffin. Better to scoff cake now than wait until after she has given me her daily update on the contents of her six month old’s nappy.

PM. Glad I ate that muffin before the meeting with Eimear. I’ve just had to listen to a full-blown account of how her pelvic floor muscles were totally shot after giving birth to number two and she had to resort to buying a pelvic toner to help get her feeling ‘snug’ again for her husband. I need a shower.

Wednesday

AM. Curiosity got the better of me last night when I popped into the chemist. So after investigating the women’s section I discovered that a pelvic toner is actually a euphemism for fanny weights. Yes, I mean weights for your bits. Next they’ll be selling insertable mini-cross trainers so your fanny can get a full body work out.

PM. Just met Owen for lunch and happened to mention about the fanny weights. Couldn’t help but notice that he seemed more than a little interested. Like, what’s the implication here? That my fanny has let herself go?

Thursday

AM. Have been to the chemist and bought fanny weights. The manual promises to ‘improve sexual enjoyment and responsiveness’. I’m there! Will sneak to the loo so my fanny can get her induction.

PM. Done! Just ten minutes a day for six weeks and soon I will be performing spectacular feats that you’re never likely to see on Ireland’s Got Talent!

Friday

AM. Disaster! Have somehow lost the string on the fanny weights and they refuse to budge. Don’t have time to go rummaging. I now have to go to work and somehow keep a straight face while interviewing a major soap star.

PM. To avoid the most humiliating doctor’s appointment ever, I had to do the unthinkable and consult Eimear for advice. I won’t go into details. Suffice to say, that if I was a Native American Indian my name would be Jumps-Around-Vigorously-in-the-Ladies-Loo-A-Lot.

Monday

AM. Running on a short fuse this morning, thanks to Annoying Flatmate Laura and her new slobberbucket boyfriend being all over each other at the breakfast table.

Had to sit there and watch her fish all the raisins from her bowl of Country Store, then re-distribute them one by one on each spoonful so that she could be guaranteed a raisin in every bite. Slobbers declared he loved her endearing quirks. For ‘quirks’, read ‘infuriating habits.’

PM. Unbelievable career news! Our resident columnist has resigned because she hasn’t been paid in three months so Lucia has asked me to step in as ‘guest columnist’. No pay rise of course, so I have to content myself with prestige and getting-my-name-heard-in-the-public-arena factor. Now, should the column be forthright, pertinent and insightful? Or maybe whimsical, slightly eccentric and oh, so witty. Future career hanging in the balance.

Tuesday

AM. Spent the night wondering about my new career as public personality. Perhaps I’ll be one of those people who gets invited on to witty TV panel shows and fervent radio debates. Maybe Ray D’Arcy might even have me on his TodayFM morning show as his resident ‘funny person’.

 Ray: So tell me Emily, what did you get up to this week?

Me: Well, Ray, this week I wrung the neck of my annoying flatmate, Laura, with hilaaa-rious consequences…

PM. Visit from Big Boss Richard – says he wants the new col to be ‘fresh and lovably quirky’. Eek.

Wednesday

AM. In an attempt to develop a lovable quirky streak, spent the night watching Laura. Think I may have cracked it: I threw two perfectly good pieces of toast away this morning because they were from the square end of the bread not the round. Asked Slobbers if that was endearingly quirky, he said yes but only when Laura does it. Bah.

PM. Hector pointing out that a preference for the roundy end of toast is quite prevalent, and not really unique enough to be considered a quirk. His quirk is that he refuses to drink coffee out of dark cups, he says it looks nicer in a white cup. Heather says she will only eat sandwiches that are cut in triangles, not in squares, and quartered-sambos turn her stomach. Queen Julian from Wine and Dine says he will only cross the road when he sees a green man as he was knocked down and killed in a past life and doesn’t want to tempt fate.

All fairly high standard quirks, the bar has been set.

Thursday

AM. Have come up with potential quirky subject for new col – the inconsistency of tiramisu in restaurants. I rank it as a high-risk dessert option because it can either be an over-moist mess or a creamy delight depending on where you go.

Top three high-risk dessert options:  1) Tiramisu (reasons outlined above). 2) Chocolate fudge cake (note to all restaurateurs, it should always be served warm, with vanilla ice cream AND whipped cream AND chocolate sauce). 3) Carrot Cake (Who the hell thought it would be acceptable to just have a light smattering of icing on the top? There should always be a generous layer in the middle too.)

PM. Photographer coming later for head shots. Not looking forward to it as in my case the camera adds 20 pounds. Have been watching America’s Next Top Model for inspiration from Tyra Banks on looking ‘fierce’ etc.

Friday

AM. Arse. Lucia dismissed my high-risk dessert idea for column as ‘too weird’. Back to the drawing board.

PM. Photos are in. As feared, I am a total ug. Photographer commiserating with me; he helpfully pointed out that while I may not be conventionally attractive I do have a certain, wait for it… ‘quirkiness.’ Great.

Monday

AM. Crap weekend. Nephew’s eight birthday was a bit of a damp squib. It turned out to be in a feckin’ play centre so there were no opportunities for sitting in a corner getting plastered and eyeing up the hot dads of other party goers. One of the party supervisors was easy enough on the eye, but there wasn’t even a game of Musical Statues which would’ve allowed me to freeze in various bending over type seductive poses. What’s all this play centre shite anyway? When I was a kid you were doing well to get a measly bowl of jelly and ice cream before having a quick bop to Pinkie and Perky and then being pushed out the door with a crumbling piece of store bought chocolate Swiss Roll wrapped in a napkin. Of course, if you were very posh you had your party in McDonald’s and got sent home with a Ronald McDonald pencil case, but these A-list dalliances were few and far between.

PM. Eimear informing me that play centres are the bottom of the rung. Last week she went to a kids’ party that featured three different styles of bouncy castle (which were all in keeping with the party’s colour scheme of pink and cool lavender), a three course meal involving monogrammed serviettes and magic tricks courtesy of Keith Barry. Not only that but those who were triumphant at the party games won a free spray tan. Christ, I thought it was exotic when Tara Doyle’s dad welcomed us to her ninth birthday party wearing a Fozzy Bear mask.

Tuesday

AM. Feeling inadequate. Even eight year olds lead a more high class and refined social life than I do, need to inject some sophisticated type hob-nobbing into my existence, stat!

PM. Just been moaning to Owen. He has suggested that we host a wine party in the house. In short, we play host, invite ten friends, get them to cough up some cash each, then two wine experts arrive loaded with drink and we all get to sit around and have a ‘tasting’.  So we get to be sophisticated and inebriated without a winding taxi queue in sight? Sold!

Wednesday

AM. Very excited about my wine night! Just think, I will soon be able to actively engage in the whole wine tasting bollocks when I go to a fancy restaurant, at last I will have the respect of stuffy up-their-arse waiters who hitherto have looked down on me for asking for ‘something that’s around 14%’.

PM. Just back from Starbucks. Sent back my latte; there just wasn’t enough froth on it: “No, no, no, this will never do! Make me another one my good man, chop chop!”

Thursday

AM. Deliberating with colleagues over what food to serve at my sophisticated wine party, it must be elegant but simple.

PM. Got it! Vindaloo!

Friday

AM. Just been talking to the wine expert who has suggested that the likes of crackers, cheese and fruit may make for a more fitting compliment to the flavours in the wine, but of course… what was I thinking!?  

PM. Right, off to get some cocktail sticks and will then make a start on the pineapple hedgehog.

Monday

AM. Did nothing all weekend, except clean the congealed spots of god-knows-what from the bathroom floor and then I went over to Bessie Mate Fiona’s and did hers too. Have to say, Aldi are certainly the front runners when it comes to being your one stop shop for all affordable cleaning and hygiene related products.

PM. To do: buy more of those handy anitbac wipes, great for getting those encrusted kitchen counters gleaming again… and they’re flushable!

Tuesday

AM. Bloody hell, just read the above; what’s happening to me!? I need a night of raucous debauchery, stat! I used to tear people’s houses apart, not give them a good spit and polish.

PM. Office wide discussion on house parties and how they were a weekly feature during the college years. Typically, you brazenly show up at a party at the flat of someone you never even heard of. You’d arrive with two cans, end up drinking eight, snog some long haired greasy tit from Engineering, then puke on the landing and finally wake up on a couch with drool on your chin, a mouth like sandpaper and a head like a pneumatic drill. Happy days!

Wednesday

AM. Spent the morning trying to convince random colleagues to have a house party but they’re all too concerned with their feckin hard wood floors. Bollocks. A rip roaring knees up is just the thing I need to liberate me from my dull mid-30s slump.

PM. Aha! Just remembered it’s my nephew’s 8^th birthday party this week… it’ll have to do. Will wangle an invite.

Thursday

AM. On to the brother last night and it seems that I am still in the party bad books after making a disgrace of myself last year. As far as I’m concerned, I won Pass the Parcel fair and square, and I didn’t cheat by holding on to the parcel for longer than I had to like most of the kids there. But oh no, apparently adults have to forfeit prizes just so kids can feel good about themselves. Told my brother I may have to think about whether or not I’ll go as I have a very full schedule.

PM. Just thinking, my brother has a bloody cheek! At least I bother to interact with the kids rather that doing what all the other adults do, i.e., sit in a corner quaffing wine, cackling and gorging on Rice Krispie buns.

Friday

AM. Still feeling sore about being told the correct way to ‘behave’ at a party. Agony Aunt Kay has been helping me as I struggle with re-surfacing traumatic memories from my childhood; specifically how, when I was seven years old, I got ejected from David Reid’s 7th birthday party for perpetuating the urban myth that if you eat a bag of Space Dust while drinking a can of Coke your insides will explode.

PM. After reaching a breakthrough with Agony Aunt Kay and consulting with Owen, I have decided to be gracious and go to the party. Rang my brother again to promise him I’d behave like an ‘adult’, and even managed to stop short of calling him an arse face git.

Monday

AM. Spent the whole weekend avoiding Owen’s sexalicious friend William for fear of instantly falling into bed with him. I am not that person anymore, I am happily engaged. So instead, spent a considerable amount of time continuing with my research in anticipation of National Retro Dessert Week (NRDW). My initial findings were thus: there is a lot of ground to cover, in which case it might be more prudent to initiate a National Retro Dessert Month… or at least a fortnight.

PM. Harked back to the good old days at lunchtime with a bowl of Strawberry Angel Delight; it’s like re-discovering an old friend! It will definitely feature as part of NRDW, but Arctic Roll isn’t even getting a look in, that shit can feck right off. It’s one of those treats from your childhood that’s best left as a memory, a bit like Wham Bars or Bird’s Trifle Mix.

Tuesday

AM. So many more desserts to explore but still find myself re-visiting the jam donut, it really is a revelation. Although it has to be said, donuts are definitely smaller than I remember when I was a kid, and I don’t buy the whole Creme Egg USA debacle where they peddled the crappy excuse of ‘it didn’t get smaller, you’ve just grown up’. Me hole! The bastards have shrunk them.

PM. Bored at work and found myself looking at William’s Facebook photo again. I feel dirty. How can I even sleep with this guilty conscience?

Wednesday

AM. Couldn’t sleep last night, however nothing to do with guilt over a yet-to-be-committed forbidden sexual encounter and everything to do with pondering the issue of what kind of retro dessert one might partake of on Paddy’s Day (i.e. today).

PM. Got it! Answer: I’m advocating Bread and Butter Pudding, because it’s dense and therefore provides soakage for the vast amount of alcohol that will be consumed. It just goes to show how desserts can be functional as well as delicious. Will now put my theory to the test with the ceremonial joining of Bread and Butter Pudding and Guinness.

Thursday

AM. Ugh! The above… not my finest idea… more sleep now. 

PM. Tummy sick but must push ahead for the sake of NRDW. A slice of Pineapple Swiss Roll will make me feel better.

Friday

AM. Still sick at home, but thankfully Owen coming around later with some mags and a bag of jam donuts.

PM. Typical! After days of avoiding William, Owen brings him around while I am stuck on the sofa looking like Death’s aging auntie in crappy PJs. Things got a bit heated when Owen left the room and William asked for a taste of my jam donut. Unable to resist, I offered him some, only to have him take a bite right from the jammy part. Like, who in the entire history of the universe has ever thought it was okay to bite the middle part of someone’s jam donut!? Any normal polite person would automatically take their bite from the side. Thankfully, it means I don’t find William remotely attractive now owing to his blatant social ineptness in the realm of jam donuts, phew. Crisis averted.

Monday

AM. Went to a fancy pants restaurant with Owen on Saturday. Yummy meal, but not impressed with the dessert choice; we had pears poached in wine. Don’t have a problem with this dish per se, but let’s be honest, it’s not really a dessert is it? I mean, it’s more something light you might have mid-week while watching Corrie. I really don’t understand why these posh eateries have to complicate things. Like, when was the last time you went to a Michelin Star establishment and had a Banana Split or a slice of Coffee and Walnut Cake!? Why does society judge these desserts to be inferior to something that is covered in a ‘coconut and lime emulsion’? Emulsion is something I put on my bathroom walls for feck sake!

PM. Have decided that the country would benefit from a National Retro Dessert Week. In the interest of research I will start with a dry run myself. First question: what ever happened to the simple jam donut? It used to be the pinnacle of cake perfection but then lost its grip around the early 90s. First Dunkin Donuts came in with their feckin’ custard filled triple chocolate jobbies, then Krisy Kreme got in on the act. Not that I’m complaining, but we have to look back to where it all began; the mother of them all; the jam filled! Will make a concerted effort to get reacquainted.

Tuesday

AM. Owen delighted because his travelling best friend William is back in town and he is dying to introduce us. This is normally the point in my relationships, when things are going swimmingly well, then I meet the best friend, we fall hopelessly in love (or at least lust), and I have to break Owen’s heart, well it’s not going to happen this time.

PM. OMG! Just seen William’s Facebook photo and it might actually happen – he is a total lasher!

Wednesday

AM. Just had a full on premonition of me and William shagging. Noooo! I am happy with Owen and besides I’ve already spent a fortune on wedding mags, so will avoid meeting this person at all costs.

PM. Heather suggesting that my premonition may in fact just have been a boredom induced mid-morning sex fantasy. Entirely possible but I think it’s best to err on the side of caution and avoid underestimating the vast potential of my latent psychic powers.

Thursday

AM. Owen wants us to go out for drinks but he can feck off, must do whatever necessary to avoid clitoral thumping encounter with William.

PM. Crisis averted. Pretending to work late, but am actually sitting here enjoying a bag of jam donuts, which begs the question; how many donuts is too many?

Friday

AM. In the interest of National Retro Dessert Week, will consult with female colleagues regarding the above question.

PM. The results are in: One donut is appropriate for a morning snack. Two donuts are fine after lunch but only if you have a spinning class later on. Three donuts are acceptable as a gluttonous weekend treat, and eating four in one go is widely agreed to be an impossibility – we tried.

Monday

AM. Woo hoo! Owen is finally back from his business trip so am enjoying lots of presents, back rubs and wine. Have earmarked this evening for a night of scrummy dinner followed by filthius maximus sex. Luvverly.

PM. Feck. Totally forgot it’s my dad’s birthday tonight and parents have invited me and Owen around for dinner. Just spent the last 20 minutes trying to wangle my way out of it. Mother did her usual guilt trip; ‘that’s fine, we’ll be okay here on our own, your dad probably doesn’t have many birthdays left so I’m sure he’ll enjoy all the extra cake that’ll be left over.’ Told her we’d be around at 7pm… neglected to mention we’ll be scarpering early for raucous sex.

Tuesday

AM. Bloody hell. Mother got all squiffy last night and wanted to know what this ‘My Facebook lark’ was about. After gently explaining to her the difference between My Space and Facebook, Owen was then ever so polite in giving her a guided tutorial. So the parents were attempting to appear cool in front of my fiancé and my fiancé was attempting to appear easy-going and accepting in front of them, which meant we ended up staying until after midnight. Sex was put on the back burner, and not in the way I would’ve liked.

PM. Mother been on to tell me what a lovely night she had and now has the confidence to try using the laptop she bought in Aldi two years ago. Whoopee.

Wednesday

AM. Aggh! Logged on this morning to find a Facebook friend request from Mother. Nightmare!

PM. Queen Julian empathising. His mother joined Facebook and is always making annoying comments about his online activities. When he joined the Rainbow Alliance Group she made a comment about how she felt he was ‘a bit too big for Zippy and George’. Feckin’ Facebook parents, need to know that us kids didn’t think you were cool when we were 16 and you were pretending to like grunge and we still don’t think that you’re cool now that we’re 34, so shag off.

Thursday

AM. Mother just been on the phone to ask me if I noticed yet that she was on Facebook. Tried to explain to her that the fact that I (reluctantly) accepted her friend request suggests that yes, I did notice that she was on Facebook, but don’t think it registered.

PM. Double aggh! Just logged on to find that Mother has sent several Facebook friend suggestions including my Great Auntie Betty and some Dutch bloke with a leather cap called Rolfie.

Friday

AM. Phone call from Mother to ask me did I want her to send me some fertiliser through Farmville. Updated my Facebook status to, “what part of ‘piss off I’m working’ do you not understand!?”.

PM. Just noticed that my mother now has 57 friends more than I do, several of which are my ex boyfriends. Thinking about starting up a new enterprise, a social networking website for people over 55. Working title: Wrinklyfacebook.

Monday

AM. Owen still away on business and Bessie Mate Fiona busy having a shagathon with some new bloke that she met last weekend. So have been dreaming up ways to amuse myself. Spent the whole weekend at wedding fairs doing research. Cost feckin twenty quid entry fee and a fiver for parking, like hello! Why am I paying for the privilege of listening to a load of people plugging their services? It’s like forking out for the Golden Pages. Wanted to scream at them; ‘this is supposed to be for my convenience, not yours!’ Anyway, made sure to get plenty of wedding cake samples and also collected a demo CD from every church singer and crappy band going, so at least I got some return on my investment.

PM. Spent the morning perusing my extensive collection of potential wedding singers. Ooh, the power! I feel just like Simon Cowell: ‘Yes, your Ave Maria was okay, but a bit cruise ship… then you completely blew it with your Panis Angelicus…’.

Tuesday

AM. Have been ringing around all the singers – made sure to annoy them with stupid questions for at least 15 minutes each. Have been invited to a wedding this evening to check out a Proclaimers tribute band.

PM. Just back. Must admit, felt a bit rude being an uninvited guest at someone else’s wedding… tried to be inconspicuous by hiding in a corner but could definitely see people looking at me strangely. Thankfully I felt a lot more relaxed after a cheeky glass of champagne.

Wednesday

AM. Yet another band has invited me to see them in action! It’d be good to hear them for research purposes, but I actually think even I am too morto to gatecrash another wedding.

PM. Phew, Heather has kindly agreed to go with me tonight. She reckons if we dress weddingy enough then we’ll be less conspicuous. To do: de-dust fancy hat.

Thursday

AM. Great wedding last night. After a shaky start most people assumed that we were part of the wedding party, Heather even got an extra comfy chair brought out to her for being pregnant. Had three glasses of champers and danced with Old Uncle Ron to ‘Come on Eileen’. Woo hoo! Leaving work early for a manicure before we head to another do tonight.

Friday

AM. Bloody wrecked. Arrived early at the wedding and heard on the grapevine that the bride’s lesbian cousin and her partner had missed their flight, so we nabbed their seats. Stingy-arse Happy Couple had tea and coffee instead of a champagne reception and the bloody Prawn Cocktail was a nightmare. Also, it seems Heather made the right choice with the Banoffee while I was stuck with an icky pavlova. Note to all pastry chefs: pavlova should be soft and marshmallowy in the middle, not hard and crisp, but top marks for the strawberry coulis.

PM. Just had a call from Owen to say he’ll be home tomorrow and can I pick him up from the airport. Told him to get a taxi as have a Z list celeb wedding on at the Ritz. Apparently they have an Abba tribute band and their ‘Benny’ actually has a real beard – I’m there!

Monday

AM. Owen away all this week so it looks like I will temporarily have to revisit my old life and remind myself what it’s like to be a single person who has nothing to do and nobody to do it with… still, there’s always Heather.

PM. Have arranged to go and see a movie tomorrow with Heather. I was thinking along the lines of tasty Viggo in The Road, but she reckons the bleak nature of the movie may upset the baby’s ‘resonance’, so instead she’s chosen to see It’s Complicated… riiight, because the baby’s resonance definitely won’t be disturbed by the in utero sounds of geriatrics having sex.

Tuesday

AM. Just thinking, going out with a pregnant woman does have its advantages; nobody will dare skip us in the queue for the pic n mix or talk loudly in our vicinity for fear of unleashing her wrath.

PM. Disadvantages of going to a movie with a pregnant woman: you have to drop her at the door while you find a parking spot somewhere in the next county, then you have to stand in the lobby like a tit doing your best to hold an extra large popcorn, a bottle of Gavison, and a cushion, while she goes to the loo for the gazillionth time.

Wednesday

AM. Ugh! Still recovering from the sight of a post-coital Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin naked in bed together… I mean really, I’ve spent the majority of my life thus far trying to shut out the fact that my parents do it, so why on earth should I pay €9.90 plus 80 cent booking fee for two hours of having it shoved in my face in stereo!? Brings back horrific memories of Friday nights years ago when my parents plonked us in front of Buck Rogers then disappeared upstairs.

PM. Office wide discussion on It’s Complicated and the icky issue of parents having sex. It seems everyone has a horror story. Hector just finished telling us how once he went looking through his dad’s drawer for socks and found a tape which he thought was home video footage of him and his little sister as kids. It wasn’t.

Thursday

AM. If there’s one thing worse than hearing your parents having sex, it’s listening to other people’s stories about their parents having sex. As far as I’m concerned, I was born without sin… either that or I grew out of some kind of alien pod, like in the movie Cocoon.

PM. Heather reckons that we are all being silly about the pensioner sex thing and that old people doing it is ‘cute’. Eww.

Friday

AM. It just dawned on me, how feckin’ insulting must it be for parents!? I mean, in their pre-arthritic days they used to have hot steamy sex, and now they’ve reached the stage that when they do manage to creak a leg over people either recoil in horror or patronisingly congratulate them.

PM. Mother just been on the phone to see how I’m managing without Owen. She suggested I go and stay there tonight. On a Friday? I think I’ll pass.