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So one of the interesting things about this full diary I seem to have developed is that I've become this sort of of super-organised, highly-motivated worker that like, totally DOES STUFF. This morning alone I was up bright and early, shunned the bus for a brisk walk to wake me up and get me going (I KNOW. THERE ARE BETTER WAYS TO DO THAT THAN POWER-WALKING TO ADELE. But work with me here.) to write an original piece of work and redrafted another, go to work, do some journalism-type stuff, research a job opportunity, take out 5 minutes to poop (because DEAR GOD performance anxiety in a public loo is crippling) and text my bestie about the merits of Resident Evil and how we quote my mother too much. Because we do. Every conversation we have is laced with what Jane says. We're mad for it. I went the whole week just gone without seeing Calum. Our schedules just didn't match. Yeah. I said schedules. I'm a dick. He even texted me to say, I know that you are working very hard

I've been a right proper pissy cow lately. No, Internet, you don't have to be nice to be about it- I know I have. But do you know what I think it was? TOO MUCH FREE TIME ON MY HANDS. There is, after all, only so many times a girl can wank herself off to pass the afternoon. And it wasn't until I got dead busy these past few weeks (NOT BUSY ENOUGH TO STOP ME TWEETING ABOUT BEING BUSY, OBVI) that I realised how much I get from a full diary. What do they say? If you need something doing ask a busy woman? Well, hey there! Over here! And look. I happen to know that there are people out there who actually work for a living over this student malarky. All I have to do is look at my dear old dad- he doesn't see daylight Monday through Friday for the six months of the year that the sun goes into hiding. And no, I don't have kids or a mortgage or a husband to support. I don't even own a basil plant because I killed the one I did once have. But indulge my new status as a do-

My baby brother Jack has just moved to LONDON! to forge out a career for himself in television. It has to be written as LONDON! because for anybody who has to declare that they were born in Derby on their passport application, LONDON! is like a diabetic that dreams of chocolate factories and isn't even bothered about where Willy has put his Wonka. i.e. it's a really big deal, even if the reality doesn't quite live up to the dream. Too much chocolate does indeed make you nauseous. Jack Skyped Mama today, whilst I happened to be around. "I've got a job on Friday," he said, all excited for his first LONDON! job. "As a runner on a music video being filmed in East Sussex." "That's great news!" exclaimed Mama. "Well done! Brilliant!" she said. And then we carried on discussing LONDON ! and how the streets really are paved with gold. As my brother was ringing off, Mum said to him, "So have they told you what to wear on Friday th

I sodding hate January. I hate that I'm fat in January. I hate the grey in January. I hate that for about ten minutes on the first day of January there seems to be an overarching sense of can-do and positivity that one can only mourn for the rest of of the month, like Liz Jones over her career  or the fact that anybody ever let ER get cancelled. I hate that January makes me so dreary . I'm just not fun in January. January is like that boyfriend who never did really appreciate your dry wit and ageless charm, but whom you always just have that one last tryst with. It happens when you get a bit squiffy every New Year's Eve, and you can spend the three weeks afterward wondering why he hasn't called and checking the size of the pores in your nose because maybe that was what turned him off. You can pass hours standing in front of the mirror contorting yourself into any number of positions he might have seen you in (WE'VE ALL DONE IT) and possibly refusing to shave any bod

The day after I got to Mum and Dad's for Christmas I got woken up quite unceremoniously. "Come on," Mama Jane yelled in my sleeping face, "Cilla next door is having a coffee morning for charity. She's made some dolls out of twigs that we've got to go and buy." It wasn't a request. I pulled on my super-skinnies, because this was- after all- before the fifteen pounds of Christmas food I was to consume over the final days of 2010, and smeared on the lippy. I'm normally just a lip balm kinda of a girl, but as much as attending a charity coffee morning for the middle-aged wasn't a request neither was, "Looking all pasty. You come over all washed out when you don't have colour on your lips." That was Mama Jane too. (SIDE-NOTE: To save time and energy on my hair in the mornings, I regularly sleep with a braid in my wet hair so that with a bit of body mousse when I wake up I can rock a sort of Russell Brand-come-Tina Turner 'do tha