An Update:

Will write some more tomorrow but here's a little update on what I've been up to over the past week or so:

Last Friday: I had a phone call at 2am from my drunk husband asking me to pick him up from town. I just about resisted the urge to take a photo of him and post it on here as he was being sick out of the car door into the road. After failing miserably in his slurred attempts to tell me that Jaegerbombs had been on offer, he fell asleep on all fours with his head on the sofa. I caught up on 4 episodes of Lost (appropriate name. I'm never getting that time back) whilst monitoring him for choking on his own vomit, before dragging him up the stairs to bed around 6am. He woke up at 11am feeling fine. I woke up feeling like a bag of spanners. Where's the justice in that, I ask you?

Saturday: We had a party for my sister's 30th birthday, featuring the Second Most Random DJ in the History of the World. I recal dancing with my Dad to "That's Amore", and raising an eyebrow when "The Candyman" came on. In case you're wondering, the award for Most Random DJ in the History of the World goes to the chap who played "Free Nelson Mandela" at a friend's wedding. My sister seemed to enjoy her first proper night out since the birth of her baby a couple of months ago, most notably mistaking her own child for the one in the sample photo in a picture frame she received as a gift. Her husband and my husband got drunk and started play fighting back at my parents house, resulting in Mr G sticking his finger up my Brother-In-Law's nose and giving him a nosebleed, which he promptly wiped all over Mr G's shirt. They were eventually split up by my mother, much to everyone else's amusement.

Sunday: I realised I had missed X Factor the night before. Oh well. It's no fun without John & Edward.

Monday: I went to work. Lots of customers were rude to me for no reason. I'm grateful to have a job but I REALLY REALLY hate this.

Tuesday: I decided to conduct a little experiment to pass the time at work. I took 414 calls. 313 Customers said thank you. 101 did not.

Wednesday: Spent the entire evening working on an application form for a job I really want.

Thursday: I got told to "fuck off" by a customer at work. At the same time I probably earned about 30p. Every cloud...

Friday: I got paid. I also spent my entire lunch break on the phone to the Inland Revenue trying to get my emergency tax code removed. All my wages went on bills and I had to borrow £1.50 from my friend to pay for my lunch. Decided I really don't deserve to be poor. I always saw myself being quite well off, this financial crisis must surely be a temporary blip that will obviously rectify itself in the new year. When this does happen, I will be very generous with my wealth, and probably do the odd bit of charity work too.

Saturday: I got a rejection letter for the aforementioned Job I Really Want. To comfort myself, I watched an early episode of Columbo and had a lovely afternoon nap on the sofa. In the evening I watched X Factor with mild amusement as Simon Cowell credited Stevie Wonder for writing the awesome Lennon/McCartney song "We Can Work It Out", and Louis Walsh declared it "not a very well known". I decided I don't really care who wins now and really can't see any of the final four having a lasting career.

Sunday: Had a lovely day visiting my (very skinny) pregnant friend and her hilarious daughter, then called round to another friend's new house and left absolutely pig sick at the sheer gorgeousness of the entire abode. Got back to my own mouse-infested, unfinished money-pit of a house and felt thoroughly depressed.

Having looked back at this diary of events have just realised with absolute horror that I lead the life of an impoverished pensioner and starting tomorrow am going to relinquish control of this sorry state of affairs.

For starters I'm going to stop feeling sorry for myself, and expecting everyone else to pity me too*.

For the past month I have turned up to work looking like an absolute dog. I honestly could not care less that my crazy fringe has taken on a (more interesting) life of its own, and excessive comfort eating has caused an outbreak of spots of teenage proportions, which I then spend most of the day picking just to pass the time.

Obviously the key to my future wealth rests on the book deal that I'm never going to secure whilst I'm not actually writing anything.

So in the morning, I shall be digging out my make up bag (I must have a proper think about where I left it), making myself look half presentable to be not thanked by another hundred members of the public who can't see me anyway, in the hope that if I look a bit more with it, I might feel a bit more with it. And when I get home, I am going to start some work on my book.

*Naturally I am allowed to take this all back at a later date.