Today has been an awful ordeal, loves. I spent Thursday night in den of A list iniquity Kabaret's Prophecy knocking back Meows (this summer's It cocktail - or 'cockie' as Assistant Ed Rob Yates insists on calling them, though I do wish he wouldn't, how vulgar) and failing to calculate the GI on my canapés, and was a touch fuzzy round the edges first thing. (Am wondering if hangovers and toxicity and Kate Moss-ish wild living might all be passé. Should I instead opt for Bree Van de Kamp style steely self-control and power domesticity, and rigid hair? Discuss.)
So. Arrived. Breakfasted on a couple of Diet Cokes and a handful of new favourite Japanese delicacy Poky. (They involve biscuit and chocolate, but are very long and thin, and so I assume won't actually make me fat. Isn't that how it works? Liz Hurley would know - such a shame she shunned my early advances on friendship.) Tried and failed yet again to find a home in this ungrateful paper for my inspired column Do Try And Be A Bit More Like Me (in which I instruct the nation in the twin arts of flashiness and trashiness, and the other art of, you know, Being More Like Me.) Discovered late morning that Jose Mourinho - who should quite obviously have fallen madly in love with me aeons ago - has such a backlog on interview requests that he won't even bother considering mine before the end of the season. So there goes my entrée. I very much fear I'll have to resort to Plan B: stalking. There was nothing for it but to lunch, (in The Easton, which is the new The Eagle, people.) Returned to my desk to discover that it's 4pm, and no one's sent me a single freebie. Ah well. It's very nearly martini hour, and I've got seven bottles of super premium vodka under my desk.
