That's All, Folks

Well, readers, this is to be my last ever DOADR entry. After a good ten minutes consideration, I've decided 'tis time to move on to pastures new. This has nothing to do with the fact that my social life is hectic for the next three weeks and I really couldn't be arsed writing with a constant hangover. Nope, it's time for a fresh start. As the year draws to a close, so should this blog.

The truth is, I am a journalist and I should be writing about things that journalists write about: current affairs, climate change, wanker bankers, Jordan's attacks on Peter's manhood, that sort of thing. The Boyfriend feigned support when I told him of this change in direction and tried not to react when I suggested I start with Darling's windfall tax on bonuses in the City. OK, so I'm no Robert Peston, but I'm confident I can venture an informed opinion on most subjects, albeit formed from my own unique understanding of the subject in question.

There is also a glaringly obvious reason why DOADR has run its course. I am no longer a receptionist, nor am I particularly disgruntled. When I started this diary, six months ago, I was pushing 26 and my career looked about as promising as all 192 countries attending the Climate Conference in Copenhagen this week, reaching a unilateral agreement. See – I do know my stuff. (It is Copenhagen, right?)

I'm pleased to say this is no longer the case. Yes, I am currently working for a magazine about caravans (oops, did I just let my anonymity slip?) but I have to admit, I really enjoy what I do. I love the impassioned readers who compare motorhome prejudice to ethnic cleansing and send me videos of their grandchildren in their caravan, accompanied by wishes for a 'tender Christmas'; I love the bizarre assignments I'm sent on; I love my colleagues and I love the fact that I'm working for one of the largest and most respected magazine publishers in the UK. Most of all, I'm excited by the promise of what's to come.

This blog has been wonderfully indulgent and I have been both surprised and touched that anyone other than my mum finds the minutiae of my life even vaguely interesting. An even bigger surprise, has been the readership itself. I had expected my girlfriends would follow tales of dietary angst and PMS, but not uncles, The Boyfriend's mates and my 17-year-old male cousin. One friend of The Boyfriend's, who I have long believed to be a misogynist, regularly logs on to find out what's been happening in Annie's world. I've also been told he's upset he hasn't been mentioned. Gaz, there's love. But I still think you're a chauvinist pig.

It was difficult for me, unashamed Luddite that I am, to even contemplate getting on board with blogging. I still have a Nokia 3310, send handwritten letters and left Twitter because it was all too complicated (I'm even in a Book Club for Christ's sake) and yet, this whole experience has been great fun. It was a comfort to know that, after a crappy day behind reception, I could come home and vent and someone out there would be reading. Hurrah for technological progress!

So, thanks guys. I really do appreciate the support and am glad you've enjoyed reading this. I'm still writing bar and restaurant reviews for Fluid (www.fluidfoundation.co.uk) and who knows, I may once again, re-enter the blogosphere, but instead of sharing all about my life, I'll write about yer man with the bushy brows. What's his face? You know, the one with the red briefcase who's going to tax those horrid bankers?

It'll come to me.... So, Jordan and Peter, eh?

Happy Christmas and New Year, etc.

Signing off.

Alix. I mean Annie. I mean....

Hook, line and sink, sink, sinking...

I interviewed this guy yesterday for Fluid Foundation – TV chef, Valentine Warner. You may have seen him in a semi-aroused state, praising his own culinary creations on the BBC series 'What to Eat Now'. Beeb bosses have dubbed him the 'Russell Brand of the kitchen' and I must say, I can see the similarities. Look at that unbuttoned shirt, those manly hands, the gleeful smile as he spreads his chosen bird's legs...

I put this comparison to him, one he flatly denied, of course. He wanted a discourse on food and his latest TV series, being a TV chef and all, whereas I wanted to talk hair – how does he keep it so voluminous? I also asked him where he lived and before he had a chance to reply, assured him I wouldn't stalk him. This might seem like an odd thing to say at an interview, though not when you have a history of stalking. But that's a story for another day.

Also this week, I attended the annual luncheon of a well-known motoring institute, on behalf of Tractor magazine. All went relatively well at first. I managed some successful networking, despite having zero knowledge of, nor interest in, cars. It always astounds me how enthusiasts think everyone else shares the same unbridled passion for their hobby. I was spoken at for a full hour about engine sizes. I nodded politely of course, but if the glazed over eyes failed to denote my boredom, you'd think the entire bottle of wine I consumed before our starters arrived, would have said something?

Anyway, we had sat down to lunch when I thought I should do the rounds and introduce myself. After shaking hands with the rest of my table, I was about to reach across to the girl opposite, when I noticed she had a prosthetic arm. I observed it was her left arm and so naturally, I assumed the right would be fit for a handshake. So, over I go, extending the hand of acquaintance when out of nowhere, the right arm is raised from its hiding place under the table, and a hook is produced.

I was immediately thrown. One failed limb I can deal with but this was entirely unexpected. She waved it at me in polite acknowledgment of my attempt to observe etiquette and was, no doubt, letting me off the hook (I couldn't resist).

She was just about to resume her conversation with her lunch partner and that would have put an end to the embarrassment. Naturally, I couldn't let it go for fear of being seen to discriminate, so, I made the call and shook that hook. Rather vigorously I may add, in an attempt to convince everyone at the table that I carry no prejudices whatsoever towards Britain's disabled populace.

The girl smiled, seeming rather bemused by my obvious anxiety, and we carried on with our meal. I had almost wiped the incident from my mind when, on taking leave of my fellow diners, I felt obliged to do yet another round of the table, entirely forgetting about the hook. When I reached my friend once again, I remembered, mid hand-extension, what I was dealing with and terrified she might not be so forgiving this time, I immediately retracted the hand and waved it in the air in an enthusiastic fist pump, muttering something about what a great lunch this had been. I legged it before I could gauge the reaction.

Between my bunny boiling behaviour at the interview and inability to engage with those of limited mobility, it has been a week of unrelenting mortification. I have just about recovered and am off to review the London Christmas Taste Fest today. I have been told by my editor I'll be interviewing a TV chef. As long as he's not hot or disabled, I think I'll be OK. I refuse to even contemplate the outcome if he's both...