Hello Diary,

Would you like a summary of my week since we haven’t caught up since Tuesday?

Diet: Shit
Work: Shit
Flat: Shit
Love life: Shit

Going to use this week as a practice run, as it turns out you need to plan meals and do a food shop if you don’t want to eat chicken and mushroom Pasta’n’Sauce for lunch 4 times in a week. I also seem to have the motivation to do things at the opposite time in which I should be doing them. Let me elaborate:

Motivation to exercise: when in bed going to sleep
Motivation to find new job: whilst at work

As a rule, I am spending many an hour making lists, making plans, making improvements whilst at work (secretly) broken up by trips to the toilet for a quick (long enough for a decent catch up, short enough that they don’t phone HR to break down the cubicle door through fear of the death in the workplace pay out.) Insta scroll. With my mind full to over brimming with ideas, I drive home. Upon walking through the door I become an amoeba, capable only of microwaving a potato (I am a potato) and parking my arse until I can’t fight sleep anymore, then going to bed and thinking about how I’m going to spring out of bed at 6.30 ready for a jog up a big hill. When in reality, I’m going to snooze the alarm, but actually turn it off, fly out of bed at 7.55 shouting “shit, shit, shit” whilst rubbing talc into my greasy hairline because I forgot dry shampoo, AGAIN, then run out to my mobile bin (car) and drive like Cruella de Ville when her engines all mental and swirly, narrowly avoiding mowing down 4 pedestrians.

Do you see my dilemma?


Going to text gals and see what they’re doing, maybe they will take pity and pour wine down my throat


The cheek of it.
Might re-download tinder and see if anyone’s messaged me since I abandoned ship

No sodding messages.

Humph, going to watch Bridget Jones in bed.
I hope I fall asleep before the happy ending.
Stupid Darcy, raising the hopes of hopeless women everywhere.

Boo. Hiss.



Hello Diary,

Short one today because I don’t want to talk to you about eating a crisp sandwich for lunch.

I absolutely will have the salad I prepared for today, tomorrow.

I needed carbs today, 2-day hangover central is where I live now. A sad, crashing reality. It’s like my body is betraying me, fed up after all these years of, well, everything with cheese on top, regardless of whether it is acceptable, washed down with a five quid bottle of pinot and a double house vodka.

Why hast thou forsaken me, body.

In other news:

Today I ate a yoghurt called Tanya, it was delicious.
It took a mere 5 minutes after consumption for the “CC all users” email to come round, followed by a patrol of everyone’s bins.
I know it’s not right, but watching Tanya rifle through the recycling is too good to resist.
Although it wasn’t so funny when she wouldn’t let me order any stationery.
I don’t know how she knew it was me.
I did struggle to suppress a snort upon reading the email:

“For those who it may concern, we have a dairy thief in our midst, and I will be endeavouring to find the culprit. Please leave all waste bins 2 feet adjacent to your desk for inspection commencing at 14:00 hours. I would like to inform you that should the yoghurt be replaced by 9:00 hours tomorrow, no further action will be taken. Please note, I eat only fat-free, fruit flavoured yoghurt in the following flavours:


Strictly no cherry

I find this all extremely disappointing and the distribution of your post will have to be postponed until tomorrow. Absolutely no pun intended.



I simply cannot go on.

Until tomorrow, Diary.


Todays’ soundtrack: Whitney Houston – It’s not right, but it’s okay.


Dear Diary.

Today is the beginning of the rest of my life.

After disastrous Sunday spent almost entirely horizontal, eating bodyweight in everything I shouldn’t be, I decided ‘enough is enough, is enough, I can’t go on, I can’t go on, no more, no,’ (Barbra Streisand & Donna Summer OBVIOUSLY). I know that I have this thought process quite frequently. I know that it’s all too easy to be motivated when you’ve spent the whole day doing fuck all. I also know that ‘enough is enough’ is about a crap love life, not a crap life full stop, but I have one of those as well. So there.

New life objectives:

#1: delete Tinder (and Bumble. And Hapn) as full of all the same tossers, with all the same pictures sat next to a sedated tiger with one eye in Thailand, who wants an ‘adventure partner’ (fuck off) and “DJs” at the weekend.

#2: get off of fat arse and at least try and go outside of the house a minimum of 3 times a week. And not for wine. FOR A WALK. Not to the shop for wine. Fuck it, maybe even a run.

#3: find a new job. Can only cope so long with mid-life crisis Kevin, menopausal Maggie, and all the other cronies, before I start entering into a full psychotic break and stapling things to my face whilst humming Wuthering Heights. I might eat a labelled yoghurt tomorrow just to spice things up.

Today’s sound track: Enough is enough – Barbra Streisand & Donna Summer (Fast forward to 1:50 if you think you don’t know it)


Diary, please don’t speak too loud.

Drank entire bottle of pinot before gang even arrived. Ended up in Uber on my way to town, because apparently, I have money to burn. Returned home at 4.15, hitched a ride with the kebab delivery man, because apparently, I want to be abducted. Ate entire BBQ pizza in bed with a kilo of mayo, because apparently, I long to chat to local slimming world rep, Cath, about how I gained 8 pounds this week because I essential just strapped a feed bag to my face like a farm animal.

Woke up in bed, fully clothed, shoes on, bag on shoulder. If I were a horse, they’d shoot me.

Struggling to remember the exact details of my evening soiree. How bad can it be, really. Quick message to the group chat should make me feel better.


Oh fuck it, fell down the stairs in La Rocca on top of a hen-do (which would explain savaged knee caps) and subsequently bought entire party a round of Sambuca. Also sucked face with arsehole Adam, even after a classic girl’s toilet pep talk about how I don’t need him or his nose ring in my life.

Terrified to look at bank account. Never drinking again. Never leaving the house again.

Going to treat myself to a sit-down shower and maybe a small browse of my just-eat app.

I wonder if channel 5 will put Dirty Dancing on again.

Good god, this indigestion is crippling.

Send help diary, I am coming down with a terrible virus.

Maybe will text Adam to let him know that I absolutely do not need a repeat event of last night ever again and that’s final.


He hasn’t replied.

Ordering another pizza, last night’s doesn’t count because I don’t remember eating it and hid box in next doors recycling.

I probably fed some of it to a badger or something anyway, I’m a friendly drunk.


Today’s soundtrack:  You’re in love with a psycho – Kasabian.


Hello again faithful friend,

Today was as wanky as expected. Realised at 7.01 this morning how much of a bad idea a bottle of wine was as I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Carpet mouth combined with tiny piggy eyes was exactly what I needed to reassure me that my existence is not a waste of oxygen. Obviously.

In other news, mid-life crisis Kevin actually whistled at me to get my attention today. It took all of my best grown-up restraint not to tell him to fuck himself and then go outside and key his Lamborghini he bought when he discovered his bald patch.

The next time I need his attention I will be sure to wag my tail and bark accordingly like the dog I apparently am. And then bite him.

Goodness me, isn’t life fab.

BUT STILL – it’s Friday.  Swung by ye old faithful corner shop for ye old faithful pinot grigio. Beginning to think I am frequenting it a little too often as when I come in on Fridays he grabs a pack of twenty, pops it on the counter and with a wink says ‘I know lady, only at weekends!” Sweet Jesus.

Here’s to getting the gang round, bitching and hollering to Cher, and then dancing like I have recently suffered a severe head injury.


Today’s soundtrack: Fuck you – Lily Allen.





Let me tell you a bit more about self.

I must admit, I’m really enjoying that you have to listen to what I say.

Internal thought: maybe a therapist wasn’t such a bad idea… oh well, too late now.

I’m nearly 25, and I have no idea how the hell that happened. One minute I was whinging about revising for my GCSE’s, then I was throwing up in my halls at university, and then I was renting a bedsit in Clifton, telling myself it’s okay that I have had a jacket potato for dinner 3 times this week whilst watching Kath & Kim.

I think I’m having a quarter life crisis – is that a thing?


I googled it. It is.

Cue: crisis about crisis.

Read article which outlined all of my feelings about my sad life. Feel slightly better as now know am not the only delusional mad woman on planet, but also, equally as stressed as before as it offered no advice or guidance and just confirmed I am having a crisis.

Maybe small large glass of pinot will help.


Oh Christ, have eaten entire contents of fridge.


Already dreading alarm because tomorrow I will have to speak to wanky colleagues about my aforementioned sad life, as will look like shit because whole of pinot bottle has somehow disappeared.

Going to listen to James Bay and pretend I’m his muse.

Amelia –  Out

Today’s soundtrack: (the greatest cover of all time) James Bay – Simply the Best.


Dear Diary,

I have never had a diary before, so apologies if this is a little stilted at first. I suppose I should begin by introducing myself; my name is Amelia Addams, and I am royally fucked off.

It occurred to me today that if I didn’t make a conscious effort to consolidate my thoughts onto paper, there is an incredibly high chance that I may utter one of them to a real human being.

Now, I understand that may seem a little OTT, “it’s just a little thought Amelia, why must you be so dramatic?” (channelling obnoxious buck-toothed office, Tanya) “Well, Tanya, what if I told you my thoughts went a little like this: ‘if that man tells me to smile one more time, it is more than likely that I will get down on my hands and knees and punch him in the crotch,'” Oh dear. Tanya is starting to look a little uncomfortable. Sorry, Tanya.

So Diary, you are my last hope. I almost feel bad laying this burden upon you, but on the other hand, tough tits. It’s really quite important that I don’t get fired, and the only way to do this is to whisper ‘what fresh hell’ to myself upwards of 30 times a day and then get home, question my existence, then fling those thoughts over to you to digest as opposed to launching them upon unsuspecting  colleagues and/or innocent members of the public.

You. Are. Welcome.

Amelia A. Addams
(Yes, like the family.)

Today’s soundtrack: Queen – I want to break free.