Sunday 29 October

10.02pm. I cannot believe the irresponsibility of the BBC. I have been looking forward to the Elizabeth and Darcy wedding episode for six weeks, got changed specially, a nice bottle of wine, phone unplugged and what did they do? Ruin it.

My points are as follows:

1) Why, when Jane asked when she first fell for Mr Darcy, did Elizabeth, instead of giving one of the 487 reasons any woman in this country could instantly have given for falling for Mr Darcy, simper: "It was when I first saw his grounds at Pemberley" - as if she were some gold-digging airhead?

2) Why, when Elizabeth and Darcy got engaged, did they immediately start wittering about their last row instead of exhibiting rapport, bursting sexual tension and kissing?

3) Why, when they finally did kiss after the wedding, instead of it being the sexually charged kiss of the decade, was it both repulsive and flaccid?

I am disgusted and would write to the BBC were it not for the fact that such behaviour is akin to having more than three cats. I'm not sure I haven't gone off Mr Darcy now if all he does is moan when he gets engaged, and kiss flaccidly when he gets married.

10.15. My mother rang to wish me luck for my new job tomorrow. I raised the Pride and Prejudice debacle, and she just said, "Oh, don't be silly, darling, no one's the slightest bit interested in love once the pursuit is over. As my father used to say, 'You don't run after the bus when you've caught it, do you?' "

Still, I feel irrationally depressed. Maybe because I have realised there are no such men as Mr Darcy any more. Even Mr Darcy himself - who would never do anything so flighty as to be an actor - is, in fact, an actor. Hmm.

Monday 30 October

I had forgotten how hideous it is starting a new job when nobody knows you so your entire character is defined by every chance remark or slightly peculiar thing you say and you can't even go to the toilet without asking where it is.

I was late through no fault of my own. It was impossible to get into the TV studios as I had no pass and the door was run by one of those security guards who think their job is to stop the staff going to work. When I finally reached reception I wasn't allowed upstairs till someone came to get me. By this time it was 9.25 and the conference was 9.30. Richard Finch's cycle-shorted torturess PA eventually appeared with two big barking dogs, one of which started jumping up and licking my face while the other put its head up my skirt. "They're Richard's. Aren't they, like, brilliant?" she said. "I'll just take them to the car." "Won't I be late for the meeting?" I said desperately, holding on to the dog's head. The torturess looked me up and down offensively as if to say "so?" and disappeared, dragging the dogs.

So by the time I got to the office the meeting had started and everyone stared except Richard, whose portly form was clad in a strange green woollen boiler suit. "Come on, come on," he was saying, jigging and beckoning the table towards him with both hands. "Rosemary West. I'm thinking sex at 14, I'm thinking Mandy Smith; I'm thinking hymens, I'm thinking horse riding." Then, without looking round, he yelled, "Bridget, you're late on your first bleedin' morning. Ring up the Queen."

"What?" I stammered. I hadn't been given a desk. I didn't even know where the stationery cupboard was.

"Ring up the Queen. Tell her you're Queen Noor of the Netherlands. And you're worried that the British aren't buying enough Belgian chocolates."

My mind was racing. Surely Belgium isn't in the Netherlands? Surely Queen Noor is of Jordan?

"Come on, come on," yelled Richard. "Cat got your dick? Don't you know your elbow from your little arse?"

I stared speechless at the table of right-on youths. Wasn't this sexual harrassment? Why were they sitting mute in their black-and-white nylon sports gear like stuffed puppies? Right. This was the new me.

"Let's leave our 'arses' out of this, shall we?" I said hoity toitily, staring pointedly at the bulbous form bursting out of the rear of his boiler suit.

"Oh, cut the crap, darling," he said "Call the Queen, then get me a lesbian who was raped by a man when she was 14, down the line at 4.30."

I didn't know what to do. So I found an empty desk, and rang the Palace press office.

"Her Majesty's on her way to New Zealand," they said. "She's taking her first flight on a commercial plane."

When the meeting was over I went up to Richard, told him my scoop and said, "Can't you see it? Mock-up first-class cabin, air hostess, Queen look-alike, anecdotes about dealing with celebs in-flight?"

A leery smile spread across his face. "You know, darling," he said to my breasts, "you could be the mother of my child if you played your cards right. Go to it."

After lengthy directions, I rushed to the loo to recover my composure, where two teenagers, one of whom was wearing a sprayed-on dress that showed both her pants and midriff, were making themselves up.

"This isn't too tarty, is it?" she was saying to her friend. "You should have seen those bitch thirtysomethings' faces when I walked in... Oh!"

Both girls looked at me horrified, with their hands over their mouths. "We didn't mean you," they said.

I am not sure how much longer I can stand this.