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.