Tuesday 3rd January
9 st 4 (terrifying slide into obesity – why? Why?), alcoholic units 6 (excellent), cigarettes 23 (v.g.), calories 2472.
9 am. Ugh. Cannot face the thought of going to work. Only thing which makes it tolerable is thought of seeing Draco again, but even that is inadvisable since am fat, have spot on chin, and desire only to sit on cushion eating chocolate and watching Xmas specials. It seems wrong and unfair that Christmas, with its stressful and unmanageable financial and emotional challenges, should first be forced upon one wholly against one's will, then rudely snatched away just when one is starting to get into it. Was really beginning to enjoy the feeling that normal service was suspended, and it was OK to lie in bed as long as you want, put anything you fancy into your mouth, and drink butterbeer and firewhisky whenever it should chance to pass your way, even in the mornings. Now suddenly we are all supposed to snap into self discipline like lean teenage greyhounds.
10 pm. Ugh. Parvati, few days older than me and therefore thinking she is superior to me even though we have the same job title, was at her most obnoxious and bossy, going on and on to the point of utter boredom about latest half-million-galleon property she is planning to buy with her rich but overbred Pureblood boyfriend, Blaise: "Yars, yars, well it is north-facing but they've done something frightfully clever with the light."
I looked at her wistfully, her vast, bulbous bottom swathed in a tight red skirt with a bizarre three quarter-length striped waistcoat strapped across it. What a blessing to be born with such Sloaney arrogance. Parvati could be the size of a Renault Espace and not give it a thought. How many hours, months, years, have I spent worrying about weight while Parvati has been happily looking for lamps with porcelain cats as bases in Diagon Alley? She is missing out on a source of happiness, anyway. It is proved by surveys that happiness does not come from love, wealth or power but the pursuit of attainable goals: and what is a diet if not that?
On way home in end-of-Christmas denial I bought a packet of cut-price chocolate tree decorations and a three galleon bottle of wine. I guzzled them by the light of the Christmas tree, together with a couple of mince pies, the last of the Christmas cake and some Stilton, while watching Antique Roadshow, imagining it were a Christmas special.
Now, though, I feel ashamed and repulsive. I can actually feel the fat splurging out from my body. Never mind. Sometimes you have to sink to a nadir of toxic fat envelopment in order to emerge, phoenix-like, from the chemical wasteland as a purged and beautiful Michelle Pfeiffer figure. Tomorrow new Spartan health and beauty regime will begin.
Mmm. Draco Malfoy, though. Love his wicked dissolute air, while being v. successful and clever. Got rid of the horrid bleached blonde hair he had at school, opting for more of a straw coloured bedhair look which suits him quite a bit. He was uncharacteristically funny today – telling everyone about his aunt thinking the onyx kitchen-roll holder his mother had given her for Christmas was a model of a penis. Was really v. amusing about it. Also asked me if I got anything nice for Christmas in a rather flirty well. Still calls me Granger, even though I've told him not to. Think might wear short black skirt tomorrow…
Wednesday 4th January
9st 5 (state of emergency now as if fat has been stored in capsule from over Christmas and is being slowly released under skin), alcohol units 5 (better), cigarettes 20, calories 700 (v.g.).
4 pm. Office. State of emergency. Luna just rang up from her portable phone in flood of tears, and eventually managed to explain, in a sheep's voice, that she just had to excuse herself from a board meeting as she was about to burst into tears and was now trapped in the ladies' with Myron Wagtail
eyes and no make-up bag. Her boyfriend, Needy Neville (self indulgent commitment phobic), whom she has been seeing on and off since we finished school, had chucked her for asking him if he wanted to come on holiday with her. Typical, but Luna was naturally blaming it all on herself.
"I'm co-dependent. I asked for too much to satisfy my own neediness rather than need. Oh, if only I could turn back the clock."
I immediately called Ginny and an emergency summit has been scheduled for 6.30 in The Leaky Cauldron. I hope I can get away without bloody Parvati kicking up.
11 pm. Strident evening. Ginny immediately launched into her theory on the Neville situation: 'Emotional fuckwittage', which is spreading like wildfire among men over thirty. As women glide from their twenties to thirties, Ginny argues, the balance of power subtly shifts. Even the most outrageous of minxes loses their nerve, wrestling with the first twinges of existential angst: fears of dying alone and being found three weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian. Stereotypical notions of shelves, spinning wheels and sexual scrapheaps conspire to make you feel stupid, no matter how much time you spend thinking about Joanna Lumley and Susan Sarandon.
"And men like Neville," fumed Ginny, "play on the chink in the armour to wriggle out of commitment, maturity, honour, and the natural progression of things between a man and a woman."
By this time Luna and I were going, "Shh, shhh," out of the corners of our mouths and sinking down into our coats. After all, there is nothing so unattractive to a man as strident feminism.
"How dare he say you were getting too serious by asking to go on holiday with him?" yelled Ginny, "You've been dating for nearly fifteen years. What is he talking about?"
Thinking moonily about Draco Malfoy, I ventured that not all men are like Neville. At which point Ginny started on a long illustrative list of emotional fuckwittage in progress amongst our friends: one whose boyfriend of thirteen years refuses even to discuss living together; another who went out with a man four times who then chucked her because it was getting too serious; another who was pursued by a bloke for three months with impassioned proposals of marriage, only to find him ducking out three weeks after she succumbed, and repeating the whole process with her best friend.
"We woman are only vulnerable because we are a pioneer generation daring to refuse to compromise in love and relying on our own economic power. In twenty years' time men won't even dare start with fuckwittage because we will just laugh in their faces," bellowed Ginny.
At this point, Dean Thomas, who works in Ginny's company, strolled in with a stunning blonde who was about eight times as attractive as him. He ambled over to us to say hi.
"Is this your girlfriend?" asked Ginny.
"Well. Huh. You know, she thinks she is, but we're not going out, we're just sleeping together. I ought to stop it really, but, well…" he said, smugly.
"Oh, that is just such crap, you cowardly, dysfunctional little shmuck. Right. I'm going to talk to that woman," said Ginny, getting up. Luna and I forcibly restrained her while Dean, looking panic stricken, rushed back, to continue his fuckwittage un-rumbled.
Eventually the three of us worked out a strategy for Luna. She must stop beating herself over the head with Women Who Love Too Much and instead think more towards Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, which will help her to see Neville's behaviour less as a sign that she is co-dependent and loving too much, and more in the light of him being like a Martian rubber band which needs a stretch away in order to come back.
"Yes but does that mean I should owl him, or not?" said Luna.
"No," said Ginny, just as I was saying, "Yes."
After Luna had gone – because she has to get up at 5.45 to hunt for nargles and visit Madame Malkin to get some robes taken in all before work which starts at 8.30 (mad) – Ginny and I were suddenly filled with remorse and self-loathing for not advising Luna to simply get rid of Needy Neville because he is an emotional sap. But then, as Ginny pointed out, last time we did that they got back together and she told him everything we'd said in a fit of reconciliatory confession and now it is cripplingly embarrassing every time we see him and he thinks we are the Bitch Queens from Hell – which, as Luna points out, is a misapprehension because, although we have discovered our Inner Bitches, we have not yet unlocked them yet. Besides, I still don't think he's really forgiven me for the time that I Petrificus Totalus'd him in first year…
Thursday 5th January
9st 3 (excellent progress – 2lb of fat spontaneously combusted through joy and sexual promise), alcohol units 6 (v.g. for party), cigarettes 12 (continuing good work), calories 1258 (love has eradicated need to pig out)
11 am. Office. Oh my God. Draco Malfoy just sent me a message. Was trying to work on CV without Parvati noticing (in preparation for improving career) when Messages (1) suddenly flashed up on top of screen. Delighted by, well, anything – as always am if is not work – I quickly opened the message and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw 'Malfoy' was sender of the message. I instantly thought he had been able to tap into the computer and see that I was not getting on with my work. But then I read the message:
You appear to have forgotten your skirt. As I think is made perfectly clear in your contract of employment, staff are expected to be fully dressed at all times.
M
Hah! Undeniably flirtatious. Thought for a little while whilst pretending to study tedious-beyond-belief manuscript from lunatic. Have never messaged Draco Malfoy before but brilliant thing about messaging system is you can be really quite cheeky and informal, even to your boss. Also can spend ages practicing. This is what sent.
Sir, am appalled by message. Whilst skirt could reasonably be described as a little on the skimpy side (thrift being ever our watchword in editorial), consider it gross misrepresentation to describe said skirt as absent, and considering contacting union.
H
Waited in frenzy of excitement for reply. Sure enough Messages (1) quickly flashed up. Pressed open, but alas it was about a missing copy of Magical Mechanics. Aargh. After that: zilch.
12 pm. Oh God. Draco has not replied. Must be furious. Maybe he was being serious about the skirt. Oh God oh God. Have been seduced by informality of messaging medium into being impertinent to boss.
12.10 pm. Maybe he hasn't got it yet. If only could get message back. Think will go for a walk and see if can somehow get into Draco's office and erase it.
12.15 pm. Hah. All explained. He is in a meeting with Seamus from Marketing. He gave me a look when walked past. Aha. Ahahahaha. Message pending:
If walking past office was attempt to demonstrate presence of skirt can only say that it has failed parlously. Skirt is indisputably absent. Is skirt off sick?
M
Messages (1) then flashed up again – immediately.
If skirt is indeed sick, please look into how many days sick leave skirt has taken in previous twelvemonth. Spasmodic nature of recent skirt attendance suggests malingering.
M
Just sending back:
Skirt is demonstrably neither sick nor absent. Appalled by management's blatant sizist attitude to skirt. Obsessive interest in skirt suggests management sick rather than skirt.
H
Hmm. Think will cross last bit out as contains mild accusation of sexual harassment whereas v. much enjoying being sexually harassed by Draco Malfoy.
Aargh. Parvati just walked past and started reading over shoulder. Just managed to press Alt Screen in nick of time but big mistake as merely put CV back up on screen.
"Do let me know when you've finished reading, won't you?" said Parvati, with a nasty smirk. "I'd hate to feel that you were being underused."
The second she was safely back on the phone, I got back to work. This is what I am about to send:
Skirt is demonstrably neither sick nor absent. Appalled by management's blatantly sizist attitude to skirt. Considering appeal to industrial tribunal, tabloids, etc.
G
Oh dear. This was return message:
I dare you. I happen to know a certain Miss Skeeter who I'm sure I could persuade to fight my corner…
M
Was just feeling crestfallen with distinct brevity of reply when Draco walked past with Seamus from Marketing and shot a very sexy look at my skirt with one eyebrow raised.
Friday 6th January
5.45 pm. Could not be more joyous. Computer messaging re: presence or otherwise of skirt continued obsessively all afternoon. Cannot imagine bigshot boss did stroke of work. Weird scenario with Parvati (who still thinks she's my boss despite the fact we have the same job title), since knew I was messaging and v. angry, but fact that was messaging actual boss meant she couldn't say anything. For all she knew it could be work related, although probably not judging by the constant smirk on my face. Last message read:
Wish to send bouquet to ailing skirt over weekend. Please supply address ASAP.
M
!