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.

Mon

AM. Ah, Valentine’ week, and for the first time in my earthly existence I don’t have to worry about it being the most cringe-inducing, awkward, and soul destroying time that it normally is. The reason? Why, I have a boyfriend, nay a fiancé… even better, I have a hopelessly romantic fiancé. My enjoyment of this week is so in the bag that I almost feel embarrassed to make eye contact with my less fortunate female colleagues. They have my sympathies.

PM. As suspected, female co-workers have been accidentally-on-purpose brushing off me in the hope that some of my romantic fairy dust will bring them good luck. Expecting incense burning and gifting of ceremonial muffins anytime soon.

Tuesday

AM. Ooh, dear. In the secret, unspoken competition amongst women regarding who received the most romantic gesture for Valentines – I have already won. In fact I should graciously remove myself from the running, it’s what Usain Bolt would do at a primary school egg and spoon race.

PM. Bloody cheek. Eimear from Accounts had the audacity to suggest that Owen’s propensity for extreme romance thus far in our relationship may actually work against me. She says that he has peaked too early in the season and it would be nigh on impossible for him to regain his past form. Infidel!

Wednesday

AM. Eimear’s cult of dissention quickly gathering followers! She says that I will be bitterly disappointed no matter what he does because romance is all relative really. This is what men complain about; the more romantic they are, the more romantic they are expected to be – it’s like being a premiership footballer; you’re only as good as your last goal or in this case, your last romantic meal with pink champagne. 

PM. Have invited Owen around tonight, just to make sure that he knows that I am (along with the office females) expecting something spectacular on the 14^th.

 Thursday

AM. Feckin typical, it’s like Eimear has put the bloody mockers on me with her gypsy like curse; turns out Owen doesn’t really like the 14th because he feels under pressure to perform. He thinks every day should be Valentines because he loves me so much. Tried to calmly explain that EVERY DAY IS NOT VALENTINES ONLY VALENTINES IS VALENTINES. Told him he should’ve been more prudent and kept some romantic fuel in reserve, not sure if I may have hurt his feelings. Oh well.

 PM. Eimear circulating; she knows something is afoot. She’s like the kind of person who watches you while you’re making tea and then tells you that the way you’re squeezing your tea bag will make the bag burst and then it does, even though that’s the way you’ve been squeezing the bag since the start of your tea drinking career. If this were medieval times she would be burned at the stake.

Friday

AM. Brainwave – think I know how the issue will be sorted.

PM. There, just spent the morning informing colleagues how my Owen and I shall be enjoying a romantic last minute trip to a luxury five star hotel in Paris. Ha! you should see the look on Eimear’s face – worth every penny of the €1,562 excl VAT!

Mon

AM. Lucia just asked me to write an article on HRT. The cheek! I used to get asked to write about the joys of giant willies, since when have I been demoted to Blue Rinse Affairs correspondent?

PM. Time to get my finger out and start focusing on my scriptwriting career again before I find myself being transferred to Crochet Weekly. To do: come up with a concept for an exciting new show and become a global millionaire in the style of Simon Cowell with several fingers in many yummy pies. But first, I have a sudden and inexplicable craving for cherry tart.

Tuesday

AM. Okay, after spending yesterday gathering the appropriate stationery for my project, I need to decide on genre. I’m thinking comedy with a bit of music, perhaps set against the back drop of an alien invasion. Two female characters; one a rookie cop and the other an old has-been on the verge of retirement who moonlights as an Aretha Franklin impersonator, kinda like Lethal Weapon meets Mama Mia. ‘Lethal Mama’, I like it!

PM. Spent the entire lunchbreak listening to Queen Julian blathering on about some new TV show called Glee. He reckons it’s scriptwriting genius. Chaaa! Like, just because he’s gay he thinks he knows everything about anything that looks remotely… gay.

Wednesday

AM. Happened to be watching TV last night when Glee came on. What’s all the fuss? It’s only mildly witty and entertaining. There was nothing better on so I struggled through three more episodes over various different channels.

PM. Now Eimear and Heather are blathering on about Glee. Christ, it’s not that good; in fact I could have written it in my feckin’ sleep. Wait until they see the televisual genius that is ‘Lethal Mama’ on their screens.

Thursday

AM. The more I think about Glee, the more I think that if I hadn’t have been so busy these last few years then I might actually have written it myself. In fact I’m thinking that I may approach the creators and sue them for plagiarism, because really it’s the idea that I would have had if I had have been more proactive… a bit like Gavin and Stacey, or the Harry Potter books.

PM. Consulted Robert in Admin who is studying for a law degree and he reckons that I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on with the whole suing the producers of Glee idea. Yeah, well what about the kids from Fame? I bet they’re not too happy about the whole thing; we could join forces. You can’t just put music and high school together and then say; ‘ooh, aren’t we clever and original,’ when you’re not actually.

Friday

AM. Spent the afternoon trying to make contact with Debbie Allen who played Lydia in Fame, her no-nonsense get up and go approach is just what my case needs.

PM. No joy with getting in touch with Debbie, but have decided will plough ahead with research in the style of Erin Brockovich. So, just bought season one on DVD. Have cancelled all plans to spend the entire weekend watching it so I can prepare my files. It’s a dirty job…

Monday

AM. Finally, the last Monday in January! Life gets marginally more bearable from here on in as people come to realise that their ridiculous New Year’s resolutions were all a load of bollocks and they are now free to accept their own crapulence. I didn’t even bother making any as I knew I would never see them through. Some people would call that defeatist, I just call it forward thinking.

 PM. Excited call from Bessie Mate Fiona – her new fella is coming to her flat tonight for dinner. She met him in the pub over Christmas and is keen to hang on to him for at least a couple more weeks yet so she isn’t single on Valentine’s; after that she’s okay with it all going tits up.

Tuesday

AM. Call from Fiona to say date was a disaster. It seems yer man showed up with a bottle of wine and wait for it… a tin of Quality Street – what a prick!

PM. Hector baffled as to why Fiona’s fella is a lost cause simply because he brought around a tin of Quality Street. Explained to him that while usually women are in favour of chocolate in any form, even the most Neanderthal of men surely knows that you never gift a woman with a TIN of choccies unless she’s a granny, ageing aunt, or some other pinny-wearing female. 

Wednesday

AM. Male contingent is up in arms! They are demanding to know what the deal with the forbidden tin of choccies is.

PM. Spent the morning gently explaining to male colleagues that boxes of chocolates are infinitely preferable to tins. Also, as Fiona pointed out, giving a tin of chocolates in January is even worse than at any other time of the year because it’s plainly obvious they are just Christmas leftovers.

Thursday

AM. Thinking of penning a new book and pitching it to major publisher. Working title: ‘Buying chocolate for women so that you increase your chances of going to bed with them: A guide for men.’

PM. Have conferred with female colleagues and collated preliminary research for book. Here’s a quickie low down on the chocolate pecking order:  3) A luxury truffle in a presentation box, a walnut whip or a creme egg – these are simple middle-of-the-week loving gestures. 2) A giant bag of sweets, a box of Maltesers, Revels, or a small box of choccies – these are weekend type gifts to accompany a movie or The X-Factor. 1) A large box of luxury chocolates with at least two layers, ideal for birthdays or special occasions – a woman should not be expected to share these unless she wants to.

 Friday

AM. Forgot to add two important notes: 1) Tins of chocolates are out unless they are heart-shaped tins in which case they are fine. 2) Gifting your woman with a bag of pic n mix should only be attempted at highly advanced, nay, enlightened levels (another book opp here methinks).

PM. Have been congratulated by several men this morning who reported that the simple gesture of a walnut whip or creme egg was greeted with squeals of excitement and cost them less than a quid. Time to ring the publisher. Ch-chiiing!

Monday

AM. Christ, yet another week – when will January ever end!? It’s the bleakest month on the calendar. Everyone is either broke, fat or freezing and usually all three. Even having a wedding to organise can’t take the sting out of a January Monday, although at least the sight of Hector in skinny jeans has given me something to laugh about.

PM. Think I’ll start up a new blog and call it, ‘You Know You’re Avoiding Work When…’. Today’s entry: ‘…you try to fit 10 marshmallows into a mug of hot chocolate, and succeed.’

Tuesday

AM. You know you’re avoiding work when… you Google ‘webbed toes’.

PM. Hector still swanning around the office in skinny jeans – the most ridiculous thing that I’ve ever seen. Christ, men have moaned about us in leggings for decades. Hector reckons I’m just jealous because he has lovely long thin pins while I have stubs and an arse the size of Canada. 

Wednesday

AM. You know you’re avoiding work when… you consult an atlas to see which country your arse most resembles. Actually, at the moment, it probably is Canada.

PM. Have done an office wide poll of female colleagues and it has emerged that men in skinny jeans are a no no. They’re fine when you’re a teenager, because at that point you’re thin enough not to feel threatened by men with skinnier legs than you, but by the time you get to my age, the sight of men in skinny jeans can be just too intimidating. I mean who wants to go out with a man who has shaplier legs than you do?

Thursday

AM. You know you’re avoiding work when… you try various stationery equipment to find something that will wedge perfectly in the gap between your boobs. Heather’s jumbo stapler fit the bill nicely.

PM. Hector has come out all guns blazing. He reckons skinny jeans are men’s way of getting us back for the whole Michelle Obama ultra-toned arms thingy. For centuries they have been happy in the fact that no matter how little working-out they do they will still always be able to beat even the most Fatima Whitbred of women in an arm wrestle. However, now that women are pumping some serious iron it’s put pressure on men to start getting back in shape or risk getting an arse kicking from a girl. So they’re returning the favour by putting their lovely legs on display. Gits. So the upshot is if women agree to hang on to their batwings men will ditch the skinny jeans – somebody needs to broker some kind of peace deal on the issue.

Friday

AM. You know you’re avoiding work when… you ring your fiancé to inform him of random things that would put you off getting married. So at least now Owen knows that there is no chance of us tying the knot if he ever comes home wearing skinny jeans.

PM. Owen late for dinner this evening – he says he’s just popping into Top Man to return an item he bought in the sales, must be a dodgy tie or something.

Monday

AM. Ah, hello world, and greetings 2010! I am ready for ‘The Teenies’! Behold the giant sparkly rock that sits upon my finger and makes me have to drag my arm around behind me like a Neanderthal. It now seems that finally, after muchly gallivanting and fornication, the time has come for me to settle down. Best of all, apart from gearing up for a life of loving contentment and mutually rewarding partnership, I also get to be the only person in the office who actually has something interesting to say about how Christmas went rather than ‘quiet’, ‘nice’, or ‘ooh, ate far too much.’

PM. Shock! Hector incredulous over my newly engaged status, in fact, he is laughing hysterically. He reckons I’m not exactly ‘wife material’!

Tuesday

AM. Still torn over impending new role;  I mean, what am I expected to do, meet Hubby at the door every evening with his feckin’ pipe and slippers after a day spent ironing his Y-fronts? 

PM. Bloody hell, even Queen Julian reckons he would make a better wife than me. Something must be done!

Wednesday

AM. Sorted. Have joined the Good Wife Internet Forum for advice on what a good wife does (hence the name).

PM. Hector reckons being the good wife is more about what I shouldn’t do – i.e. fall in drunk on a Saturday night with half a kebab smeared across my face. Have searched the Good Wife Forum, but there seems to be a lot of grey areas surrounding this issue.

Thursday

AM. Just to be safe, will consult colleagues regarding what the new age Irish man expects of his wife.

PM. The results are in:  1) Make yummy dinners. This is not expected every night but it is hoped that wifey dinners will be more superior to the ones that they make. 2) Do laundry. Again, this is not expected all the time, but it is hoped that wifey laundry will smell better and be more neatly folded than the laundry that they do, especially when it’s their turn to do the rugby/soccer team kit. 3) Be quiet during major sporting events  – talking is permissible but only at half time and even then it helps if it’s to do with the sport in question as concentration on anything else at that point is difficult for them. 4) Make them feel better after a crappy day by being warm and schnuggly. 5) Give regular ‘you-know-whats’, and wearing hold-up stockings is to be encouraged. If you can do both of the aforementioned simultaneously, even better.

Friday

AM. Have shown Owen the list of wifely duties and thankfully he laughed, he said as long as I make him the occasional Sunday Roast like his mammy used to do, then he’ll be more than happy. Must say, his face dropped a bit when I told him that was out of the question, doesn’t he know that Sunday is hangover day?

PM. As loving relationships are all about compromise, have decided to cook Owen a delicious ‘Friday Roast’ instead… just as long as he’s out of the house by 9pm as have arranged to go clubbing with Bessie Mate Fiona.

Monday

AM. Still wallowing in the post Christmas Day chocolate mire; can barely see my toes but there is a backlog of goodies to get through so must remain strong. At least it’s early days yet so there are still some of the ‘nice’ sweets left, give it a few days and we’ll be down to all the ‘ick’ ones, like the feckin’ Coconut Eclairs, that’s when it really gets depressing.

 PM. Have discovered a new player in the Christmas choccie stakes; Thornton’s Classic Collection. I got a box as a pressie from one of my nephews. Inspired! The fudge is a revelation. Nice to know that even a hardened chocoholic like me can still be pleasantly surprised.

Tuesday

AM. Still deliberating over my relationship with Owen. It’s been great but bound to go tits up sooner or later so may as well call it a day. Got a v expensive necklace from him for Christmas not to mention an Extra Large Cadbury’s Selection Box, so don’t think it would be fair to end things before the Curly Wurly has even been scoffed. Will see it through till New Year’s.

PM. Owen has just invited me to a New Year’s Eve masked ball; sounds very exciting but for those in the know, the whole masked ball thing is a big scam really. It immediately conjures up images of accidental no strings sex with an unknown masked stranger in the cloak room; when in actual fact you arrive to find a crappy mask on your place setting which everyone wears for about 10 minutes until they get too bored and/or pissed to bother anymore. So by the time you figure out that you have bugger all chance of mind-blowing anonymous sex you will have already spent the 200 quid on a sub-standard three course meal and a pissy glass of complimentary champagne.

Wednesday

AM. Compulsory ‘show-your-face-in-work-even-though-you’re-not-going-to-do-a-tap’ day. I mean really, to all the bosses of Ireland, who are we kidding? You know that feck all will get done until at least the 6^th of Jan so why not just go with it?

PM. Bore, bored, boring. I could be at home watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang for God’s sake!

Thursday

AM. Suppose I better compile some New Year resolutions. 1) Stop procrastinating. 2) Emmm… ah, feck it, will finish this list tomorrow.

PM. Last night of 2009 and of my relationship with Owen. Time to get all melancholy over a Snowball.

Friday

AM. OMG!  I have been proposed to! I cannot believe it. Just after midnight Owen got down on one knee! At least I think it was Owen, as he was wearing a stupid mask. I realise now why men propose with diamond rings, it’s because when you see a gigantic diamond being shoved into your face the only word that comes into your head naturally is ‘YES!’ – it’s like being offered a Hot Fudge Sundae with whipped cream. I am going to be Mrs…, Mrs….. emmm.

PM. Just checked, it’s Sidebottom. I will be Emily Sidebottom. Think I might hang on to my maiden name.