9 August 2005
visits to PooterGeek: 12—v. good / silent phonecalls to D: 50—poor [caught out once and pretend to be Indian call centre operative; not v. convincing I fear]
How much longer can I go on living this lie? To the world I am their Domestic Goddess. To Charles I am his true love, his wife. To my children I am their doting mother. But I know in my heart that I am a wretched and broken thing without him. To think that we have never even met.
10 August 2005
time spent surfing Web for pictures of D: 1 hour—v. good / silent phonecalls: 7—excellent [got away with yesterday: before I hang up he always says, “Mum? Are the batteries going in the telephone base station again?”]
Another bad review for the new show. I just can’t bring myself to commit to it. If only D had a TV and I knew he was watching. Propose to producer that we liven things up with an OB from a Cambridge college. She is not impressed. Perhaps we can do a bioinformatics special edition?
11 August 2005
visits to PooterGeek: 28—quite good / silent phonecalls: 34—not good [he is out all day; hope he wasn’t with that little minx who helps him to choose his trousers]
Children complain about Fine Young Cannibals album on auto-repeat. Tell them I am reliving my youth. Decide to invent male online persona and engage D in vigorous debate at PooterGeek. Anything is better than this endless emptiness.
12 August 2005
visits to PooterGeek: 250—v. v. bad / silent phonecalls to D: 6—good [too busy on Internet]
D hasn’t written about me for so long. Charles, however, looks better for the tanning sessions I bought him, but again refuses to shave his head.
13 August 2005
visits to PooterGeek: 2—v. good / silent phonecalls to D: 0—v. v. good
What have I done? What have I done?! Get Siobhan from make-up and Gary from costume to disguise me as bag lady. Tell them it’s for a Christmas special. Take Cambridge Cruiser and station myself at nearest cashpoint to his flat. Have to pay existing pitch-holder twenty pounds! Wait all day. Eventually D appears! He is bigger in real life. Ask him for money. It takes three attempts before he hears me over his muttering to himself, but even his eye twitch is sexy. He speaks to me, apologises and says he has no cash, but offers me his collection of Subway sandwich tokens. I politely decline. Ten yards down the street, when it’s all I can do not to howl in despair, he turns back to me! Then he asks, “Has anyone ever told you you look a bit like Dawn French?”