Wednesday 19 march – mood: ready for change (what I imagine it would be like for a caterpillar evolving into a butterfly)
1pm: Have taken first steps towards perfection, and signed up at the gym. Just going there motivated me to get fit, what with all those immaculate twig-like women in their designer sportswear – just walking up to the front desk worked up a sweat. I have decided that being skinny clearly leads to success, since these women can afford to wear their posh, upmarket, skimpy, underwear-resembling clothes purely to perspire in. Although I would imagine their sweat probably resembles something of an Armani perfume.
On the way of out the gym the vending machine winked at me. Couldn’t resist trying one of those new Cadbury’s bars - you know, for the journey home. Delicious! (I can always start my diet tomorrow)
6.45pm: my dear friend Louise just rang, asked if I fancied a drink tonight. Since everyone’s going, thought I ought to make an appearance. I could just start my anti-alcoholism tomorrow; it’s not like I’ll drink much tonight though. After all, don’t I deserve a celebration for my well-motivated gym outing today? I am clearly taking this very seriously, and will soon look simply superb!
Very late: I am drunk. Have just stumbled through the door, after single-handedly demolishing 3 bottles of rosé, and a twenty deck of Bensons. Quality night. To me the high-light was watching Ben (seriously gay) and Michelle gyrate their bootys on an unsuspecting old man, before leaping onto him in the hope of re-enacting baby’s lift in Dirty Dancing. They are all back at mine, so I’m now going to join them and bellow the words of Whitney’s ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ whilst perfecting my sex kitten moves, ready for the next excursion. Watch out men, I am on the prowl!
Thursday 20 march – mood: fragile. Please handle with care.
11am: oh dear god! I have just woken up with the mothership of all headaches, to find 4 girls (3 if we’re classing Ben as male) passed out in various places around the house. Several of them are partially naked. After removing Danielle’s head from the kitchen sink, I filled the kettle and began to make strong coffees all round.
It appears that fluffy took a strong liking to Ben’s sweet smelling shoes, and left her cat calling cards behind – I think I’ll leave them there for now.
3pm: I knew there was something I’d forgotten - Aunty Jane’s invite to her fabulous party tomorrow. Can’t wait. Quite frankly, the thought of being in a room full of loved up couples, and pervy widowers who ask ‘when am I planning on getting a boyfriend?’ whilst staring down my top isn’t entirely my cup of tea. Boyfriend? Now what is that then?
I need to cheer myself up. I need to do something I love, something that relaxes me, something I am good at. I need to go shopping for shoes. I strutted through the door in my nine west heels, trampling over last month’s unopened, yet undoubtedly shameful, credit card statement. My heart raced, my muscles tensed in anticipation, my cheeks flushed; I was on the search for some fab footwear.
Friday 21 march – mood: over the moon with my new shoes
1pm: I will be murdered tonight. My personal life will actually be ripped to shreds at this family do. However, I am not worried, seeing as I will regain some dignity with these AMAZING shoes I bought yesterday. Admittedly they don’t go with anything in my wardrobe but that can be fixed with a little retail therapy; plus, who actually cares about co-ordination anyway? Abstract is good!
I plan to turn up looking the belle of the ball; so beautiful, that they will automatically assume I have a boyfriend and not bother asking, therefore avoiding any awkward, shuffling of the feet, silent moments. It’d be handy if a muscular, and rather attractive, single young man just happens to notice me looking dashing. To begin my miracle transformation, I started by shaving my legs (A cage full of lions had neater pruned pins than mine). Naked legs are vital to show femininity don’t you know. Something about the lack of hair appeals to a man, especially since when they run their hand up your leg, their ring won’t get stuck in the curly afros protruding from your limbs. Either that, or the shiny reflection from your freshly moisturised bald leg blinds him, and he fails to notice the true hideousness of your face. Beats me, but whatever it is, it works.