J (who is actually called Jasmine, I’m fed up with calling her J) has been ill all morning, throwing up in the toilets. She said she thought it must have been something Glenn cooked her last night. He made her nettle soup, apparently, and she’s not sure where he got the nettles from. I wouldn’t want to eat a London nettle, myself. There can’t be a single one that hasn’t been urinated on.
Anyhoo, she was just getting ready to go home when she called me over and said did I want to go to a party at Michael’s tonight? She was supposed to go, representing the agency etc, and she’s pretty sure she won’t be able to make it. So isn’t that amazing? I’ve just rung up the hairdresser’s and booked an emergency blow-dry, and I’m sitting here wondering what to wear. I really wish I hadn’t eaten all those cakes now, as I’ve got this disgusting roll of fat round my waist. I’m definitely not having any more of Jo’s chocolate-chip cookies today.
