If it isn’t a show commissioning me to have ‘penetrative sex’ three times a week (yes, it is called The Sex Diet, why do you ask?) or another show that wants me to firewalk with people in Sri Lanka (MUCH preferred to having sex three times a week. Unless I don’t know my partners’ names that is), it’s being interviewed about some pop phenomenon or a war film.
Then my cleaner, God love her, comes to the door and asks why I don’t have my own show…
‘Because I am answering the bloody door, that’s why!’ I want to yell but then she does bring me gifts of chocolate and, besides, you can’t be mad at a cleaner. They could spit in your milk when you’re not looking… Even worse, I may have to touch a mop. No, no, no. SOOOO not me.
But speaking of mops… God, if my hairdresser doesn’t get the fuck back from Budapest I shall soon be able to do Kate Bush at charades by just standing in the room and pointing at my hair.
It hasn’t been hampering me at parties, however. With this fringe, I can’t see who’s bringing me drinks (just as well) and because my hair’s in a mess my panties are in a bunch. I’ll be doing the late Relationship Shift tonight on the radio, guesting not hosting, and I can hardly wait to get back to my bed.
WARNING (btw): never buy a Tempur mattress like they sent up to the moon. They cost £1400 and are like sleeping on a piece of white bread. Hot, horrible passion-killers they are, taking all the bounce and squealing out of sex and turning it into… well, a whole lot of nuthin’.