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.