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.
