Oh fark. I am *so* found out at work. I haven't done anything productive, at least not from my supervisor's point of view, for the last six weeks.

On the other hand it wasn't as bad as I expected. A gentle email telling-off and a reminder of deadlines, nothing drastic. This could be down to one of a few reasons:

1. I'm so shit hot I can do anything and get away with it. Likelihood rating: 2 stars.
2. I'm so shit hot he fancies me and is maybe a little scared of being humiliated by a pretty woman. Likelihood rating: 3 stars.
3. I'm so premenstrual he is maybe a little scared of what I might do if confronted. Likelihood rating: 4 stars.
4. It's not really that important a project anyway; who cares? Likelihood rating: 3 stars.
5. He's passive aggressively criticising me behind my back instead of to my face. Likelihood rating: 4 stars.
6. Everyone does this and I'm only just catching on. Likelihood rating: 5 stars.

Shirking work is not usually a part of my ethic. Coming in late with an obviously new pair of shoes on, yes; calling in sick any day with more than four minutes continuous sunshine, yes; going off for two-hour lunches without telling anyone, yes; reading the Internet incessantly (well who doesn't?), yes. But I'm always on-time with handins and always to spec, if not above. I am of the opinion that if your work can't be carried out well within the confines of the working day, something is wrong. Whatever else my parents gave me, their genes for last-minute flashes of inspiration have been a godsend.

I'm torn. I don't know whether this is a good development or not - whether it will inspire me to work harder or to take yet longer lunches. Should maybe work on option #2 just to have all my bases covered.

There are few things that irritate me as much as ersatz Americana.

Correction - there are plenty of things that irritate me more than that, but I presume you don't care what I think about the parking on my street or the fact that while probably less than 2% of humans will ever have need for an 'extra large' condom, about a third of men buy them.

I don't understand this fascination with all things beer and steer. Germany's Eurovision entry was bad enough, but now BBC 6 Music is playing Primal Scream's Country Girl about once every forty minutes. Fuck's sake. You don't see Californian surfers going round dressed as Morris dancers, do you? No cutting-edge New York rock band ever got together, out of their skulls on smack, and decided that a gratuitous bagpipe solo was the way forward. (Well, maybe they did, but they passed out before it ever became reality.) And weirdly, there seems to be a positive correlation between the presence of banjos in British music, and the level of vehemence against the US president. What message are musicians trying to send? Really, this is not at all ironic - it's poor. When a song makes you embarrassed to be in the same room that's not a good thing.

Don't misunderstand, I've nothing against country music as such. In fact I approved the producers for the TV adaptation of this blog based largely on the fact that they, too, like Dolly Parton. But by and large, the vast majority of such things should be left to the contintent where they originated. Especially Shania Twain. Please, stay there. Please.

Speaking of extra-large condoms, none of the American clients I had used them. Now before you go and make the inevitable joke about everything being bigger in Texas - it was a refreshing change from the considerable subset of British men who unveil their cocks as if they expect a band to play fanfare as the glans emerges - ta-daaaaa! Really, boys, it's just a penis. If it was that special it would be me who was paying you, yeah?

Oh, and open letter to Madonna: Will you stop banging on about Catholicism? Just pick a guilt-laden religion already and stick with it!

For once, I've nailed something that wasn't another human being, or a sex toy, or whatever.

I nailed that interview.

Of course, I can only say that now, as they've offered me the job (hurrah!). Until the call came, if anyone asked about it, I would limit myself to 'I think it went well... they were very nice.' What can I say? Superstitious runs in the family.

Unfortunately, this puts me in a bit of a bind at work. The new position doesn't start until September, which is good, as it gives me time to work out how to tell people. Obviously, jumping up and down on my desk yelling Boo-yah! Take that, you hamster-faced dullards! for the benefit of the rest of the department is an attractive option, but probably not the best way to announce this recent good fortune.

Which brings me to the subject of Tony Blair. Since announcing his plans to retire, no one has taken him seriously. The Americans have a great phrase for this - the 'lame-duck' president. Whether Blair is officially now a lame duck or not is not the issue. It's the fact that once you tell people you're going, you're not expected to be using your time wisely but rather take long lunches (in Mustique), charge things to the company account (like a pair of Ginas for every day of the week), and ignore all emails (as they would interrupt your in-office holistic massage). Therefore, many people who have announced their plans to leave come in one morning to find themselves on the wrong end of employment.

I have in fact been planning the opposite: now that I know I'll be moving on the something better, I can relax and throw myself into the work here, which I have been, frankly, neglecting.

My supervisor has up to this point taken a rather laissez-faire attitude to his duties. But he must have picked up on something in my smug smile because suddenly he's asking about the progress of a project that's meant to finish in August. And I don't know how to say that I haven't done anything yet. So I proposed that we have a meeting in mid-June to go over it, figuring that this would give me just enough time to make it look like I haven't been writing a book and looking for other jobs instead of toiling away behind the computer all spring.
He emailed this morning:

Four weeks is a bit long to wait. Why don't you write a summary of how it's going and what you're planning to do in the next month.

Fuck fuck fuck. How best to say that I was so wrapped up in other things, that I didn't even notice he hadn't sent me all of the initial data for the project until yesterday, without looking like a complete twat?

I did it. I really did it; I thought I never would. I mean, I'm up for almost anything. Almost. But everyone has to draw a line somewhere, and for me, that was always it. As far as I was concerned, any girl who did this was a tramp, no questions asked, no exceptions.

Sigh.

I suppose lines were meant for crossing.

I had my tips done.

(Note for men: this means I went to a salon and had fake nails put over my real ones.)

Why, you might ask? After all, when I was a call girl, one of my trademarks was real everything: hair, tits, nails. And generally speaking, my nails were in very good shape then. I'd managed to stop biting them with the thought that if I was going to make a living off my looks, then I had to have the total look. You would have thought that two decades of tooth-based assault on the nailbeds would have left them irretriveably lost, but no. They were fine. Great, even. To the utter surprise of anyone who's known me since childhood, my nails grew out long, strong, and perfectly manicurable.

Unfortunately, without the financial incentive to keep my fingertips out of my mouth, I've returned to the old slovenly ways. And this past month, between stress at work and having to turn in the manuscript for the seond book, I've bitten them down to nothing.

Problem is, I have a job interview this week for a job I'd really like. Something a bit of a step up on the career ladder. I've been looking to move from my current position (on all fours, gripping a horsetail plug in my - hahaha, no, I meant my work position) for a few months.

But there's more to it than that. I had decided, if I wasn't able to find a job I thought commensurate with my abilities within a certain time period, that I would give up this career lark and take up writing full-time.

That is, of course, until I was mercilessly dumped by the Telegraph.

The irony is, the dumper, Mizz Wheatcroft, recently penned an article debating whether the ideal income threshold for happiness is £25k a year. She doesn't think it is, what with all the 'donning a fancy new frock' or 'giving a surprise present' she must do. (As an aside, who "dons a frock"? That sounds like a euphemism for Oxbridge sex rituals.)

25k is a grand less than the Tele was paying me.

Obviously, the book contracts and other sources of income make up for the shortfall this year, and it was hardly very hard work to turn out about one word for every two pounds, but in years to come, when I may not have a book to flog, what sort of money can I expect to be making? I had thought of the £24k as a kind of baseline income for a writer. Not outstanding, but certainly liveable, given a supplement from a few conservative investments and a clever-clogs accountant without whose approval I do not even get to wave hello to my money. (Kidding, M. You're lovely. Mwah.)

Now, I see how easily that can be taken away. And for really no reason whatever, apart from a quasi-feminist whim. (Note it's been a bad month for sex columnists; Seb H has lost his in the Indy as well. In absence of any other plausible explanation, I blame the media ubiquity of Ariel Levy's book. FFS we've only had about six nanoseconds of human history in which people had a reasonable expectation of enjoying their sexuality without being made to feel undue shame for it, is it time for the backlash already?)

Anyway. So I have a job interview this week, and I'm rethinking writing because all of a sudden it doesn't seem such a safe or attractive bet for my future solvency, and I'm not too keen to go back to waxing my genitalia as a way of life rather than an optional extra, so I'd really, really like to land this job now. My CV is sharpened to within an inch of its life, I have what might be termed an accpetably expensive haircut, my wardobe of tasteful suits is world-renowned, and I will probably resist the urge to wear pink stilettoes to the interview. I'm all about the professional image. But unfortunately I've gone and chewed my fingers to bleeding shreds.

'Whatever else you do,' I pleaded with the girl at American Nail Bar (or whatever it was called; this is approximately what they're all named) 'Please make it subtle. I just want to look clean and nice.'

That'll be the three-inch iridescent French talons with diamante accent, then. Wish me luck.

In Memoriam,
My Column in the Sunday Telegraph

So. Farewell then
Regular column
Axed by new editress, Patience Wheatcroft.

It would seem that
I am not suitable for
Your esteemed organ.

As the old saying goes

'Don't like the Torygraph head?
Not to worry
Wait six months and it'll change.'

Surprisingly therapeutic things to do when you can't sleep:

1. Count sheep
2. Make plans for the next day
3. Scrub the bath
4. Stab a needle through each condom in the pack you found in your boyfriend's briefcase
5. Ring his phone every ten minutes until 1a.m. with no answer before deciding that maybe a Valium or three is a better idea
6. Listen to music. Preferably Will Oldham, Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith... you know, something cheery.
   

Scenes from a London visit:

'Where are you?'

'Central... can you meet me?'

'In a few minutes. Pick a landmark and I'll meet you there.'

'Okay, I'll be outside the Dominion Theatre - under Freddie Mercury's crotch.'

* * *

'Would you drink piss out of a bottle?'

'Depends.'

'What on?'

'If they provided mints for after.'

'That's what I love about you.'

* * *

'I can't believe it. Three squid for a single journey? Three months of using the Tube is now as expensive as two hours with a call girl.'

'Yes, but a week of Oyster card is only twenty minutes in King's Cross.'

The lady professor has had me in again for a few singing sessions. I feel much more comfortable with her now, due in no small part to the fact that the last time I went in, she let me touch her up in the name of a breathing exercise.

'Hokay,' she said in her breathy voice, 'Do you mind if I put my hands on you now?'

My god, it was the stuff of a thousand soft porn films. 'No, but I feel it only fair to warn you I'm a little bit sweaty having just come up the hill.'

'I don't mind.' Cue porn music intro. Ba-dowwww . Oh I wish.

And then went on to describe how someone instructing her in the vocal arts once suggested that she 'sing up from the anus'.

I'm not certain she realises the suggestive nature of her methods, but it seems to help, as the dreaded scales are far from dreaded anymore. In fact, I have been considering taking up music more regularly and feel far more confident in my range than I have at any point in the last decade. Perhaps it's too early to ask if anyone out there needs someone to front a band, but... a girl can dream.