Saturday, November 8

9st 2lb (but can definitely lose 2lb before tomorrow using Hospital Frankfurter diet); alcohol units 3 (vg); cigarettes 2 (perfect saint-style person); frankfurters 12.

8am: Wild joy. Mark Darcy has been sent from Japan to Paris for 3 weeks and asked me to go for weekend, thereby suggesting he has forgiven me and wants me back. Only condition: must not miss plane, smoke, or damage company flat in any way. Hurrah. Just goes to show you can go through dark times in manner of Greek tragic heroines but if you just... Ooh goody, telephone...

8.30: "Oh hello, darling, guess what?" - my mother.

"What?" I muttered sulkily.

"I'm going to ski the Net!"

"Surf," I said. "The expression is surf."

"Surf, ski, snowboard, doesn't matter darling. We're all doing it! Una, Geoffrey, Daddy, Raymond and Merle..."

"Who are Raymond and Merle?"

"You remember Raymond and Merle darling, used to be on the church spire committee in Buckingham. Anyway apparently this Net is riddled with clubs and people having affairs, so we're all going to ski it! Isn't that fun?"

"Er..."

"Now," she suddenly hissed, in her do-what-I-say-or-I'll-Magimix-your-face voice, "you are coming home the Friday before Christmas, aren't you?"

Grrr. Why can't married people understand it is simply not possible to plan things six weeks ahead if you have no idea who you will be going out with by then? Mark Darcy might invite me to Lapland.

Is too humiliating having mother on Internet when cannot face starting with dot./comm. business even if entire world is furiously dot/comm-ing each other, quivering with sexual excitement, except me. Also how, if you do not have the Internet plugged into the phone all the time, can you still get messages... Aaargh. It's 8.45: must get up.

9.15: Actually have loads of time. Everyone knows when businessmen whizz between European airports, they turn up 40 minutes before lift-off, with just a briefcase with nylon shirts in. Plane is at 11.45. Must be at Gatwick at 11, so 10.30 train from Victoria and tube at 10. Perfect.

9.30: 5 pairs of shoes and boots might seem a lot for 2 days. Maybe Mark will be casual, but what if he wants to go to posh places? Or hiking? Also 2 sponge bags a bit heavy, but clearly need to be properly groomed.

9.40: Cannot believe have wasted time on packing, when most important thing is to look nice on arrival. Hair completely mad. Will have to wet it again. Aaargh. Where is passport?

9.55: Have got passport, and hair now calm, so better go.

9.59: Only problem being: cannot lift bag.

10: Goody. Have ordered mini-cab. Will be here in 2 mins.

10.10: Where is mini-cab?

10.15: In mini-cab now. Have definitely done journey in 15 mins before.

10.18: Aaargh. Mini-cab suddenly on Marylebone Rd, inexplicably deciding on scenic tour of London instead of route to Victoria. Fight instinct to yell at and attack mini-cab driver.

10.20: Traffic is solid. There is no occasion now in London when it is not rush hour.

10.27: Wonder if possible to get from Marble Arch to Gatwick Express in one minute.

10.35: Victoria. Humph. Train has gone. Still, if get 10.45, will have clear 30 minutes before plane goes. Also plane will probably be delayed.

11.10: Aaargh. Train has inexplicably stopped. Suddenly all extra things I did, e.g. plucking stray leg-hairs, seem unimportant alongside not actually turning up.

11.45: Cannot believe it. Plane has gone without me.

Sunday, November 9, Paris

Alcohol units: 0 (but only 10am); cigarettes: 0; no. of times apologised to Mark Darcy about unfortunate flight-missing incident: 42 approx; no. of times reiterated unconvincing downstairs-neighbour-mild-heart-attack excuse: 42; no. of times had fantastic, well, you know... with Mark Darcy: 4 so far! (Hurrah for Paris and the Common Market!)

10am: In bed pretending to be asleep. Have just put pan of water on (French kettle incomprehensible) and am going to make lovely steaming pot of coffee.

Mini-break vg apart from: 1) flight debacle; 2) bad post-dinner row.

Was telling Mark about Tom going on about Gordon Brown and his EMU in manner of Rod Hull and EMU, which he did not find funny.

"It's the sort of quasi-amusing idea people come out with to disguise the depths of their ignorance about economic union. Usually idiots who are Pro."

"What's wrong with Pro," I muttered, staring furiously at my plate.

"You're not pro-EMU, are you?" he scoffed.

"Yes."

"Why?"

I paused, thoughtfully. (Hmm, there is a funny smell.) Anyway, as I told him, being pro-EMU is to do with being European, cosmopolitan and cool; pavement cafŽs, beautiful, modern things in old fashioned areas e.g. the glass pyramid in the Louvre; nice food and Terence Conran straddling lace-backed chair in Canary Wharf: as opposed to old buffers puffing behind leather desks and being arrogant at European summit about the cows with everyone thinking we are snooty prats who overboil their vegetables.

At this Mark sank his head into his hands. "Oh God," he moaned...

"What?"

"I'd forgotten about this."

"What?" I said. "What? What? What?"

Eventually he lifted his head and took hold of my hands. "How would you like it if big lorries came in the night and took all our gold out of the Bank of England to Germany?"

He paused, then he started laughing and said: "Oh darling, don't look so worried." Then he gathered me up in his arms and.... Hmm. Really does seem to be strange smell.

Almost like burning smell.

10.30: Oh my God. Crept out to find entire apartment filled with black acrid smoke. Had turned wrong hot-plate on. Burnt frying pan and stove now glowing and belching smoke like nuclear reactor.

11: Will send Mum message that will be home Friday before Christmas after all.