Thursday 19 October

9st4 (bad); alcohol units 3 (both healthy and normal); cigarettes 33; fat units 17 (fat unit concept depressingly repulsive, resolve to return to calorie counting tomorrow. Wonder is it possible to calculate fat unit content of entire body? Hope otherwise). Instants 3 (fair); calls to 1471 to see if Daniel has rung 21 (excellent progress).

Humph. Incensed by patronising article in the paper by Smug Married journalist. It was headlined with subtle-as-a-Nick-Ross "Or is it?"-style irony: The Joy of Single Life. "They're young, ambitious and rich, but their lives hide an aching loneliness.

Later. Met Sharon, Rebecca and Tom in Cafe Rouge after work. Tom, too, was working on a furious article about the Smug Marrieds' gaping emotional holes. "Their influence affects everything from the kind of houses being built to the food that stocks the supermarket shelves," Tom's article rants. "Everywhere we see Anne Summers shops catering for housewives trying pathetically to stimulate the thrilling sex enjoyed by Singletons and ever-more-exotic foodstuffs in M&S for couples trying to pretend they're in a lovely restaurant like Singletons and don't have to do the washing up."

"I am bloody sick of this arrogant hand-wringing about single life," roared Sharon.

"Shh, shh," we went, putting our faces right on to the menus.

"It's about time everybody realised that a quarter of all households are single and that instead of seeing the single state as some tragic dysfunctional cock-up and single women as desperate barren spinsters, they recognised that many women - because at last they can and don't need a stupid man to survive economically - might prefer to be single than come home from a full day's work to cook and wash socks for some determinedly unevolving, domestically retarded, emotional freeloader."

"Hurrah!" I said.

"Anyway we're not lonely, as we have extended families in the form of networks of friends connected by telephone," said Rebecca.

"Yes! Hurrah! Singletons should have an accepted status - like geisha girls do - instead of having to explain ourselves all the time," I shouted happily, slurping on my tumbler of Chilean Chardonnay.

"Geisha girls?" said Sharon, looking at me coldly.

"Shut up Bridge," slurred Tom. "You're just trying to escape from your yawning emotional hole into drunkenness."

"Well, so's bloody well Shazza," I said.

"I's not," said Sharon.

"You's blurr are," I said.

"Look. Shuddup," said Rebecca, burping. "Shagernothebol Chardonnay?"

Friday 20 October

9st6 (inflated with wine box interior-style wine bag therefore very misleading statistic); alcohol units 4; cigarettes 25; Instants 5 (but stayed in); 1471 calls 22 (OK); hours spent imagining Daniel begging me to come back 1.5 (excellent); hours spent imagining Daniel's face when he finds out I'm going out with Mr Darcy 3 (poor); hours spent imagining sleeping or shopping in supermarkets with Mr Darcy 4 (v bad).

Oh, God I'm so lonely. An entire weekend stretching ahead with no one to love or have fun with. Anyway I don't care. I've got a lovely steamed ginger pudding from M&S to put in the microwave.

Saturday 21 October

9st1 (Brilliant. Have lost 6lbs in one day. Brilliant); cigarettes 30; alcohol units 6; calories 1,598 (VG); number of correct lottery numbers 2 (VG); items purchased through shopping then returned to the shop for refund in sick cycle 4; items subsequently repurchased 2 (though intend to take shiny black PVC jeans back again - whole PVC trouser concept suggests intolerable sense of sweatiness and lack of hygiene).

Hurray. This morning received a letter from Richard Finch, the editor of Wake Up Britain, offering me a job. I think... anyway. This is all it said: "OK, my darling, dicks on the table time, you're on."

Monday 23 October

10.30am. office Just called Richard Finch's insufferable teenage assistant Zoe and it is a job offer. I am going to be paid an unimaginable pounds 32,000 a year (knee-length boots, certainly, fake ponyskin coat, possibly) but must start in a week. I don't know anything about television, but sod it, I'm stuck in a dead end here and it is just too humiliating working with Daniel since we split up. I had better go tell him.

11.15am. I can't believe this. Daniel stared at me, ashen faced. "You're heartless," he said. "Do you have any idea how hurtful these last few weeks have been for me? You can't leave me." He looked as if he was going to cry. I thought my heart was going to break, felt so guilty and cruel. Just about to say I'd stay when Perpetua burst in: "Daniel, you selfish, self-indulgent, manipulative, emotional fuckwit. It was you, for God's sake, who chucked her. So bloody well put up with it."