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.

Friday 31st July

Today, I frank my last letter, transfer my last call, bugger up my last stationery order… you get it. I’m leaving.

I’m strangely sad to go. Kosher sandwich mishaps and workers’ revolt aside, I shall miss this place. I’ve already received two bunches of flowers, lots of good wishes and a compliment on my “smiley morning face”. Clearly, this lot aren’t familiar with “Diary of a DISGRUNTLED receptionist”.

Speaking of which, still haven't figured out what to rename this blog. Diary of a Tractor Journo? Diary of a Formerly Disgruntled Receptionist who is no longer a receptionist but still very much disgruntled"?

Answers on a postcard please...

Tuesday 28th July

5:51 pm

I’m shattered today. Spent half the night in a fitful sleep, my fidgeting eventually waking The Boyfriend at 4:30 am. He wasn’t cross at first. A recurring nightmare involving killer shrimp has made him incredibly tolerant of bad dreams. He reached in for a comforting hug.

I dreamt that I spent my very first Christmas away from home with his family. We had gotten married the previous year and it was my turn to go to his. I felt miserable because I missed my mum and her Christmas pudding and wanted to know if there was any way we could reach a compromise whereby we spend every Christmas with my family.

A disgusted snort as the consoling arm roughly returned to other side of the bed, firmly ended the discussion.

Yes, it is cruelly unfair to disturb one’s sleep over a dream about marital obligations but such concerns weigh heavily on my mind. I am a dreadful worrier. I never cease worrying, even when I’m in a carefree mood (then I worry about the inevitable end of my high).

Take last Saturday. It was a glorious summer’s day and The Boyfriend and I were en route to our local deli for our usual croissants and coffee.

I thought I had, the previous evening, exhausted my list of things to worry about that weekend:
“How do I get out of leaving drinks with work next week? Should I tell them I’m flying home that evening? But what if one of my colleagues should also happen to be catching a flight from Gatwick at the same time and offers me a lift? I’ll have to go to the airport and pretend to check in and I want to go see Harry Potter on Friday night.”

Climate change was also on the agenda but given The Boyfriend’s newfound love for Mother Earth, I had someone to share that particular burden.

On Saturday though, something else cropped up which filled me with dread- Birth. The pain, the aesthetic implications for my vagina, the wellbeing of the child in question. What if I’m forced to have a C section? Will this irrevocably disrupt the bond between mother and child? Will I ever be able to wear a bikini again?

For the record, I am not pregnant, nor planning on becoming pregnant any time soon, nor even engaged to be married. But should I accidentally become pregnant, birth will be a very real concern, a constant worry for nine whole months.

At times like these, I call upon my rudimentary knowledge of Yogic breathing. I am calm. I am zen-like. Life is good. Birth is life. I embrace birth. OOMMMMMMMM.

Friday 24th July

I’ve just bought a copy of “French Women Don’t Get Fat”. Recently, I’ve become obsessed with French women. You may find this surprising after my run-in with the boyfriend’s sister-in-law. We’ll call her Le Baguette from here on in. But let’s face it- anyone who makes her guests sit on the floor lest they sully her furniture, has balls.

There’s something remarkably self-assured about French birds. They exude self-control and refinement and I have decided I could do with a spot of refinement myself, certainly after my unchecked behaviour of late (Note to self: alternating champagne with shots of vodka at suburban garden parties is apparently not the done thing over here).

I shall keep you posted on my transformation from hefty miscreant to gamine Gallic goddess. After I’ve finished the Krispy Kreme one of the secretaries just handed me.