8.25am

I'm going to Ibiza by the way.

Thursday 10th September

Ibiza, Ibiza, IBIZA!!!

Sunday 4th September

What a waste of a weekend. I had intended on being thoroughly productive- cleaning, grocery shopping, watering my basil plant, etc.

Instead, Saturday was spent on the sofa watching X Factor and a really bad 9/11 movie (I was unable to muster the strength to switch to a more hangover-friendly film).

My malaise was due to an excess of merriment the previous evening, which abruptly concluded when I threw up inside my Waitrose Made For Life bag on the bus home. Class act, me.

The thing is (and despite what you may be thinking, this is NOT a case of drinker’s denial), I didn’t consume a great deal of alcohol, well- no more than your average Friday night’s intake anyway. I didn’t mix my drinks; I imbibed on a full stomach; and it was after 8pm before I had my first swall (as we say back in Belfast). In short, I followed all the rules.

Lily thinks my lack of sobriety was due to recent weight loss and I’m happy enough to go along with it. This way, I can deny all culpability and I get to be skinny. Win-win.

Poor Lils, she’s a very reserved drunk. Come to think of it, I’ve only seen her truly legless once, which makes my own occasional drunken indiscretion all the more embarrassing. It’s somewhat lacking in decorum to have your hair held back for you by a mate, younger than your little sister, while you vomit your 26 year-old heart out (btw, is there an age where it’s unacceptable to be visibly drunk? If so, perhaps it’s time I had a word with my parents).

But still, every girl knows that when you sign up for female friendship, such messy jobs are written into the contract.

Some were not much impressed by the events of the evening. Never mind that I was well behaved at the party and didn’t offend anyone. Vomiting on a bus, it would seem, is akin to murder or prostitution. I’ve had the misfortune of being horribly drunk twice in the last four months and probably a total of five times over a two year period, yet you’d swear, I’m one step away from a stint in The Priory, the way some people act.

So, my dear readers, I can respond in one of two ways: I can hang up my party shoes, pour that bottle of 2001 Pouilly Fuisse I’ve been saving for a special occasion down the sink and sign up for AA classes OR; I can accept that sometimes, I will get drunk. I might fall over, talk rubbish, say something bordering on offensive and yes; I might just throw up when my body has had enough abuse. When this happens, as it has done in the past and no doubt will in the future, I will go easy on the sauce, take plenty of green tea and become a hermit, only to resurface a few months later and make a royal fool of myself all over again.

As old friend and new roomie Beth put it: “no one has gone through life without making a complete tit off themselves”. And that’s what I love about my oldest mates. There’s never any judgement because they’ve all been in the same situation. So you see, I’m happy to keep flying that tit flag. In fact, it’s imperative that I do so. It’s a charitable act, when you think about it. I am Everyman, making people feel less bad about their imperfections by my own ungodly behaviour. I’m so saintly, I should be canonised. Such goodness deserves a drink. Better make mine a double.

Sunday 30th August

Lily has moved out. Perhaps my note leaving pushed her over the edge. I took exception to pots caked in five day old risotto, and chocolate sauce splattered across the walls. Was I not justified in the odd death threat? Despite this, I was sad to see her go but have been enduring the loss as best I can.

We have a new flatmate, Beth- an old uni friend. She's exceptionally clean and generous with her Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. You couldn't ask for more in a housemate, really. However, I'm not quite sure yet how I feel about her ironing habits. I came home the other day to find her pressing The Boyfriend's boxers, whistling the theme tune to Disney's 'Be Our Guest' while she worked. He of course, was delighted with the fruits of her labour. I've not so much as washed a sock for him since we moved in together and now he's having his intimates attended to. Next thing, she'll be hopping into bed with us and complimenting his manhood.

I'm undecided as to what course of action to take. On the one hand, my future wife credentials could be seriously jeopardised if I allow this to continue. He'll no doubt start to expect the same wifely behaviour from me. I am a serious journalist dammit, at the forefront of agricultural reporting. How can I commit to the domestic grind when there are cows to save and tractors to be raced!

On the other hand, I must not be selfish. Beth clearly takes pleasure in her work. She's also taken to ironing my smalls and bringing The Boyfriend and me tea in bed. How can I deprive both of them of such joy?

No, I must hold my tongue and soldier on as best I can. And if it all starts to get a bit too creepy, I can always leave her a note.

Tuesday 25th August

I have turned into a note-leaver. You know the type. Too spineless to tell their housemate to their face that they're a filthy cretin and therefore resorts to placing angry post-its in random places ("Clean your crap stains" on top of the toilet cistern, for example). 

My American housemate considers this a passive aggressive gesture and has thus far, like the others, ignored my pleas for a cleaner, greener household. The thing is- thanks to a spot of detective work, monitoring everyone's regularity- I know EXACTLY who the phantom shit and run is. Being the decent soul that I am, I didn't want to embarrass anyone by parading the evidence in their face, which is why I resorted to the note. 

If  I'm going to be patently ignored however, you leave me with no choice, roomies. Dirty protest. Think Irish POWs circa '78. In yoh face!

Passive aggressive, my backside. I'm bringing aggression to the frontline biactches!

Sunday 16th August

The Boyfriend, on his return from a recent visit to the South of France, announced he is becoming a socialist. It would seem he has "grown weary of London and its angry, consumerist ways" and wants us to up sticks and move to some sleepy hamlet in Burgundy. 

As you know, I have renounced all things French so the timing of his premature mid-life crisis isn’t the best.

And don't get me started on the socialism thing. This, from a man who refuses to clothe his feet in anything less than 100% cashmere, and kicks up a stink when I suggest eating somewhere that requires a voucher. But now he insists he has "profoundly and irrevocably" changed after witnessing the camaraderie between villagers on his trip.

"Everyone is equal,” he told me. “The doctor is friends with the postman, nobody asks you what you do for a living and everyone takes pride in their work."

It's astonishing he was able to nail rural France in just one weekend. A perceptive individual is The Boyfriend.

All week he’s been singing the same tune- he could labour on a farm, I could clean houses. There isn’t the same imperative to mindlessly consume over there- we can live off the land, and our love.

Faced with choice of donning a pinafore and brushing up on my peasant French, or searching for a new partner at my time of life, I started preparing an ad for Guardian Soulmates, when thankfully; he appeared to return to his old capitalist ways.

When offered VIP tickets to see U2 play Wembley last Friday, he jumped at the chance, leaving me trying to discern the ant-like figures of Bono et al from the back of the stadium while he mingled with celebs in an enclosed platform, raised up from the crowd of “plebs” or diehard fans to you and me.

Vive la socialism.

Sunday 2nd August

Regular followers of this diary will be aware of my turbulent relationship with the French. In many ways, I am the ultimate Francophile: I was born on Bastille Day, my favourite book is The Count of Monte Cristo and I’m currently on the French Women Don’t Get Fat diet (which has been going rather well, if you discount the South African wine I surreptitiously enjoyed with my Brie last night). I even look great in red lipstick.

I applaud the Republican principles of Liberte, Egalite and Fraternite and adore French cuisine. It’s just a pity then, that the French, as a nation, suck.

I have had several run-ins with our Gallic cousins, affronted by their unwavering refusal to admit culpability when they invariably cause offence. So it should come as no surprise when I confess that I nearly came to blows with one last night. The sneering Pierre nicked our taxi as I was trying to negotiate a fare with the driver.

“I am taking zis taxi biiieeeeetches,” he proclaimed with a flick of his cravat (faux Dior), pushing past us to get into the back seat. He refused to listen to the entreaties of his embarrassed Anglo-Saxon companion and merely reiterated his earlier sentiment.
“Back off biiieeetches, zis taxi iiiiiss mine.”

Defiant as Napoleon, he refused to budge. Alas, also like the historic Emperor, he had greatly underestimated his opponent. Enraging a Northern Irish woman? Schoolboy error, Pierre!

I thrust myself into the taxi with him, told him his economy was in tatters, he had a pervert for a President, Hell; his government couldn’t even secure an Olympic bid! I saved my trump card for last- Italian wine is far superior to French.

Of course, my rantings achieved nothing. I merely confirmed that the Irish are a nation of drunken fishwives and he sped off in his taxi, undoubtedly feeling amply entitled to retain his supposed birthright to superiority.

I went home, kicking myself for not having handled the situation in a more dignified manner. I did however, take great pleasure in throwing out a full chunk of Epoisse, making toasties with good old-fashioned Cracker Barrel instead. Hardly Waterloo, but a minor victory for me.