It doesn’t take much to fuck me off, but I do find some things are more successful than others at ratcheting me up to 100 on the Pissy Scale. (Copyright term, Ms Hush-Hush, 2008.)

Sadly God didn’t see fit to bestow me with an outer wrapping that turns golden brown the moment the UV hits. No, I was at the shallow end of that particular gene pool. Instead, I was to be found frolicking neck-deep in the puddle responsible for dishing out pale skin, dark hair and a vaguely rosy complexion. Stick on a pair of green eyes and what have you got? Irish colouring.

It’s not so bad; I’m sure the albinos have it far worse. Or indeed veal calves. I’m like the Asda version of the The Corrs (minus the minging brother), all rolled into one human. So far, so Maureen O’Hara. But then along comes the melted-fudge-mess of a London summer and fucks with my look.

I’ll be clear: I don’t do well in the heat. My face goes red and I sweat. I get pissed off and irritable. I don’t like people to touch me. I choke myself with excessive deodorant use and snooze at my desk when (I think) no one is looking. In short, the heat makes me envy all olive-skinned, non-perspiring goddess types.

But if my lot is to be pasty and tepid, then so be it. I can take it. Except for when certain people come right up in my sweaty and blotchy red face and say at the top of their voice:

“You’re really red in the face aren’t you? Why is your face so red?”

Then they peer at me with a mixture of disgust and pity, and the whole of London stops and stares in anticipation of my reply.

“Well, I don’t know but what is that green thing hanging down from your nose?” is what I did not say.

Confidence-withering fool, you ruin my day.

Hmmm. Didn’t make that run.

Instead I applied some fake tan.

It’s a bit streaky but I have it on good authority that vertical stripes are very slimming.

I’m preternaturally excited.

My friend The Blonde is one of the dearest and most wonderful and bestest women ever in the world. She is marrying Mr Macclesfield next August and I am to be one of her bridesmaids. Hop, skip, etc.

I’ve never been one before. I was asked once, when I was about 10, but the couple split acrimoniously before I’d even had my second dress fitting. I’m not sad though: the silly cow was going to dress me in swathes of peach taffeta. I call that a lucky escape from certain sartorial death.

Given this near brush with style disaster, I’m wary of weddings and all who sail in them. Particularly when you consider some of the billowing, sea-worthy creations some women cram themselves into.

So it’s with great relief that I learn that The Blonde plans to a) dress herself in something gorgeous and slinky and b) us bridesmaids are to wear whatever we like and just carry a posey.

Not a slither of peach taffeta in sight.

Tomorrow at 4pm I am visiting an alternative health emporium in south London (for the benefit of a certain free newspaper) to sample the delights of Chinese cupping.

Rather than wear out my fingers on the keyboard attempting to explain to you the consequences of this most mystic and ancient of arts, I think in this instance a picture paints a thousand words.

Honestly. The things I do to keep a roof over my head.

Mind you, despite looking like an American Hot for the best part of a week, I’m actually very much looking forward to trying this out. After all it’s not often one gets paid to be detoxed.

The only blot on my relaxation landscape is a rather fetching backless maxi dress I had planned on wearing to a wedding the weekend after next. The bastard marks had better fade, otherwise it’s going to take a trowel-load of body make up and/or an Outfit Plan B to rectify the mess.

Certainly the bride won’t thank me for stealing her thunder with the ‘beaten by a salami’ look.

Something a bit weird is happening to my voice.

It’s starting to go all husky and cracky on occasion. Especially today. Having had a good old listen, a friend assures me this is a positive asset to the ensemble of odds and ends that is Ms Hush-Hush.

Please God, let this be the voice of Mariella Frostrup and not a throat infection.