I am a lucky girl. Frequently this needs to be pointed out to me, not in the sense of poor children in Africa, people who live in Camden etc, but that I do something I enjoy and am surrounded by people who are fun, clever and think that I’m good.

It’s difficult to think of yourself objectively, mostly because you’re stuck in your head and have no way of clambering out and standing there to dole out praise or slaps where necessary. This isn’t depression, it’s a state of mind, it’s something you’ve got used to, like sleepwalking through getting up every morning.

It’s odd how we need accolades from others in order to feel valid in what we do. We’ve become a society so intent on celebrating ourselves that by rights we should be confident to the point of unbearable. I know several fantastically gifted bloggers who brush off their skills as something akin to cleaning the toilet once a week. Again, I know beautiful people who don’t believe that they are, and then there are those who despite being outwardly confident to the point of arrogance possess a level of self-loathing that most masturbating Catholics would whistle at.

There’s modesty, and then there’s being crippled by low confidence. Modesty can only go so far before it becomes a hobbling set-back. It should make me feel better, or less alone, to know how many people I love and respect have fidgets about aspects of themselves that are, to me, truly awe-inspiring, but it doesn’t. This being of course because I can see what they can’t. And they can see what I can’t. And, try as we might, there’s no way of combining the two.

Magazines 2010, Emap's restructuring program to try and counter the fact that nobody's buying magazines any more, is making an awwwwwful lot of people redundant. So, we're all fucking off to the pub for the rest of the day. Apparently there is a pub that is traditionally always used for redundancy days. People are going in for chats with the boss and coming out with thick white envelopes, either offering their redundancy pay ("30 days, then a review, then redundancy") or a safety net. Nobody knows where they're going.

I was just asked to be a talking head on Richard and Judy. In the stakes of early-afternoon fame this ranks second only to a guest spot on Neighbours or being an entrant on Deal or No Deal so I'm sure you can understand why I panicked, went "REALLY?!" and then said no.

I know, that's really boring, but there are several reasons for this.

A) It's Richard and Judy.

B) I'd have to talk about the Oscars and I really wouldn't be capable of doing that without going "OMG did you see what Salma Hayek wore last year? Didn't she look like a Quality Street?"

C) It's Richard and Judy.

D) I look fucking awful on television. Over Christmas I watched the Weakest Link episode I did when I was 21, and was distressed to see that memory hadn't softened and I still looked like a chipmunk playing school marm. I also talk like a corrosive version of the Queen.

This is the second time I've said no to being a talking head on anything and really, the fact I'm wearing my comfort uniform rather than a "Oh this? Just fell into it" dressed-up-for-t'telly outfit comes very low down the list compared to the fact that I am absolutely terrified about fucking up, saying something retarded and making Empire look stupid. All of Empire's talking heads are calm, cool and collected. I am every adjective that doesn't start with a c. So I told the nice girl on the end of the phone to ring up Helen instead, who not only looks good on television but probably won't jump on Richard and Judy the minute they see them.

I'm really hot and flustered now. And also rather regretful as Helen's just said you get £200 and a Molton Brown goodie bag :(

(Forgetting of course that the main reason I said no was because I have a job. *stupid face* I'd have said yes otherwise. My boss said I could do it, and I did ring them after but it would be ridiculous to do something that wasn't actually to do with my day job, goodie bag or not. Feel better now. Cigarettes are very helpful, as are nice people.)

One reason why Kingdom of Loathing is now my dearest new toy. That reason is painstakingly copied and pasted below. Another reason is that its twee-er than a plai-clad kitten hand-knitted by a Belle and Sebastian fan and also it's an RPG you don't need an XBox 360 to play, or testicles to know how the rules work.

Just outside Cobb's Knob, you encounter an adolescent Knob Goblin waving a paintbrush around.

"Look at me," he shouts. "I'm an artist! I don't have a real job! I only listen to bands you've never heard of!"

Knowing better, you lay the smack down and take the brush, determined to return it to its rightful owner.

You acquire an item: pretentious paintbrush

YES. YES. YES. Although, rather worryingly I now have two accounts because you can only play a certain amount of adventures in a day and I'd used all mine up by 11am :(

The lovely cat I loved from Battersea Cats Home, the one with no fur on her ears and who is anyone's for a handful of prawns, has found a new home. It's fairly pathetic to fall in love with an animal you've only seen on the internet, a bit like going "OMG I MUST have that jumper" and going a bit teary when you realise you haven't actually got any money. That is silly. One day I will have a cat with as much personality as that one showed, in the meantime it's very nice she's found what is hopefully a good home where they will spoil her rotten and let her be happy.

Beat boxing via Nigella. Nice comforting end of the day YouTube that doesn't hurt my brain which is good because it would quite like to lie down in a darkened room for five minutes. "Next put in some white noise. You can get it from the TV, I got mine from Sainsbury's."

Other than self-assessment tax forms, spiders lurking in clumps of fruit at Tescos, and stories about cuddly sharks that turn out to be April Fool stories, I don't really know what I'd put in my Room 101. Nobody would go for bananas, evil though they are, because they're such a good source of potassium and slow-release energy. Never mind the fact they're evil, covered in spiders and taste of mulched shite, they can do no wrong. They're the abandoned kitten of the fruit world: everyone loves a kitten, except those who are allergic, or own dogs.

So let's go for O2 then, those smug satisfied bastards who've been keelhauling Sean Bean into voicing their unbearable ad campaigns for the last few years. The unfortunate problem with their having booked Sean is that he is also the voice of the National Blood Service, which means that every time an O2 ad comes on you get the two colliding mid-brain. "Do something eh-meeez-ing t'day. Give… Give all your money to O2 because the shameless fuckers are too stingy to send out details of your promised upgrade and will quietly upgrade your tariff instead."

I used to love O2 with the passion only a former Vodafone Pay As You Go customer can muster. I loved it because of its total grasp of cheap web packages when the other providers was still working out how much money they could take before you had to go without shoes. I liked that I could send text messages off the internet. I liked its comforting dreamy isolation tank layout. Most of all, I liked the fact that the web deals were both at least £5 cheaper than anyone else and let you have more than 100 text messages in one go.

After four shiny happy years together, they offered me an upgrade that basically channelled Fisher Price's My First Mobile and I got fed up and decided to check out my sleeker, snazzier options. This is where the good bit comes in, because however much mobile phone companies charge you, they really hate it when you leave. It's like going around to visit your great-aunt Ethel and only staying for one cup of tea: you just can't. They hate it so much that they will quite brazenly wave all sorts of forbidden bounty in front of you to make you stay just that little bit longer: Swiss Roll, the "good" chocolate biscuits, £15 a month for 100 cross network anytime minutes and 500 texts.

I shouldn't have been surprised when I found out that when your 12 months are up, they don't tell you anything. Nothing. Zip. I didn't hear about an upgrade, but thought that was a good enough trade-off for such a cheap contract. No! They just cranked it up to £30 and hid all the chocolate fingers.

Screw the money (oh god, the money), screw the fact I wasn't even offered a walkie talkie in October, the bastards didn't even bother to tell me anything. That makes me mad. And when I get mad, I get middle-class. Having had a very tinny strop at the poor chap at the other end, I rang the cancellation line and fumed. And then she did it.

"Well, we do have some very competitive offers you see. As you've built up loyalty points…"

Jam tart.

"…you're now eligible for a cheaper tariff."

Custard Danish.

"I can do your current tariff for £20"

Lardie cake.

"…and you're due an upgrade as well so you could either choose an upgrade or get £100 credit to add to your bill."

French apple flan with perfect crème patissière and side servings of hand-carved chocolate swans that can actually fly.

So yes, I'm very cross at O2. I've also got sticky fingers, a tummy ache and no phone bill for the next five months.