Freaky Friday

It's unreasonable to be as delighted as I am that it's Friday. You see, I've got this in-built Joy-o-meter that goes off every Friday morning. I've always had it and it came with some really great free extras: the silly-mood-matix and the get-stuff-done-fastermabob. Unfortunately the Joy-o-meter has also got a good-god-girl-get-control-of-what-you're-eating dial which, in my experience, has a nasty habit of falling off.

And that's what happened this morning. Things started to go horribly wrong at breakfast. Mr Slimma was quietly eating his toast and butter and I'd already enjoyed my Weetabix when all of a sudden the room went all kind of hazy and slow motion.

Next thing I knew I was hovering vulture-like over the bread bin and Inner Bitch was standing in the door-way rubbing her hands together with glee.

'That's it, why not enjoy two big fat slices of bread and jam! It's Friday. You know you want to!'

By the time Inner Goddess appeared (says she got caught in traffic – those pesky trams!) and got me out of IB's clutches I was one slice down and wearing so much jam round my gob I could have been mistaken for a deranged Paloma Picasso.

'Thanks IG. But what am I going to do about this missing dial? I'll never get through the weekend if I don't find it!'

'Oh for heaven's sake, you're a smart girl, be resourceful! I can't always be here to save the day – and besides, I don't look good in dungarees!'

And with that she was off.

Bummer. What am I going to do now? It'd be easier if it was a boiler. You can get a plumber out for that. But, no, no, there's doesn't seem to be a listing for Joy-o-meter Maintenance in the Yellow Pages.

So you know what that means (cue horror film music)…DIY!

Will let you know how I get on on Monday!