All I seem to do these days is blog sporadically about various employment-related subject matter, but before I bore you all to terminal tears, just stick it out for one more post and then I promise I’ll get a second string to my woefully beleaguered bow.

Now then. Since landing the job with the drinks cabinet and the boardroom (result), I have in the meantime been thrashing out the salary stuff (cringe). Result? Delayed start date. So to keep my fingers out the biscuit jar and the boredom porn off the box, I have managed to blag my way into super-wanky ad agency, Bartle Bogle Hegarty, for a spot of contract ‘copy writing’ (read arsing around smoking fags and drawling ‘daaaaahling’ at everyone from the tea boy to Mr Bogle).

This whole escapade is amusing for two reasons:

1) I am no copy writer. I don’t really know what this breed of being does, but I’m winging it to within an inch of my life. So far, not busted.

2) I’ve never been in such a litigious environment. All they talk about is getting the lawyers in. And believe you me, I shat myself when I read the T&Cs on my contract. Fucking hell, they’ll be after my grandmother’s boney bottom to have their pound of flesh if I don’t fulfill.

So far they’re buying my bullshit and I’m banking on being out by Wednesday, well before anyone notices I fucked up the Five website proofs.

It would seem a blogger does not an award-winning word wizard make.

A good friend of mine is a freelance features writer for the glossies. She navigates the extreme bitching and narcissism that are rife in women’s mag publishing unscathed and with admirable aplomb.

No easy task and so I say hats off to her. Which is ironic given that her next assignment is three days at a nudist resort.

Cue lunchtime hilarity as the following topics were aired:

1) Appropriate topiary.

2) Artful use of tit tape in the absence of one’s bra.

3) What not to wear in the event of rain.

4) Wanger watch: keep the eye contact!

5) ‘Flaps’.

She is a braver lady than I.

In the 26 and three quarter years I have trodden God’s green Earth, it’s been quite plain that my maternal streak may need a little coaxing from its hiding place.

Children are like farts: you love your own (yes, you do!) but other people’s? No ta.

I’d love to have kiddies with The German. He would be a top drawer Dad, truly wonderful (and he’d look right gorgeous with a small one in those strap-them-to-your-chest sling affairs). In fact, if it weren’t for him, I would actively dismiss my part in procreation as utter bobbins and waste no more time thinking about it.

Despite nurturing these tiny thought-foetuses regarding Teutonic-influenced nesting, they live in a dim and distant land called Early to Mid Thirties. So you can imagine my overwhelming shock when my ovaries started to gently hum the day before yesterday.

I was in the GP waiting room. A woman sat down in front of me and extracted from an industrial sized pram, one of the most gorgeous babies I have ever clapped eyes on. I went all like a marshmallow for a bit, which being the first time this has ever happened, made me feel a little odd.

Thankfully it passed reasonably rapidly, but I needn’t have worried even if it hadn’t. The reason? Misssy M Misssives and her triumphant blog post describing what childbirth is really like, in all its glorious Hammer horror technicolour.

This good and truthful woman not only made me roar with laughter, but she has also silenced my ovaries. They can start jigging about again in 2013.

And not a moment sooner.

I got ’spotted’ by a modeling agency last night, outside Topshop on Oxford Street.

While the scout-man was trotting out the usual ‘you’ve got a great look, blah, blah, blah’ stuff, inside I was silently screaming: “I’M TOO OLD AND I’VE GOT CELLULITE!!!”

The moment they find out I’m a dress size 12-14 with a rack to match, they’ll be shoe horning me out the door faster than you can say ‘laxatives’.

Which is not to say it didn’t make me feel a bit smug for five minutes, before tucking into a very greasy and very gorgeous extra large bag of fish and chips for tea.

I just don’t think the fashion world is quite ready for Ladyshambles.