Wish he would come in now. Is very frustrating being so close to him, and wanting to touch him. Maybe I should say something. But it seems too scary a can of worms to open, because if I tell him how I feel, and he doesn't want to get back together, it will just be hideously humiliating, given that we're living together. Also is middle of night.

Oh my God, though, maybe Mark did do it. Maybe he's going to come into the room and just, like, shoot me, and then there'll be blood all over the virgin white room in manner of virgin's blood except am not virgin. Just bloody celibate.

Must not think like that. Of course he didn't. At least have got panic button. Is so awful not being able to sleep and Mark downstairs, naked probably. Mmmm. Mmm. Wish could go downstairs and, like, ravish him. Have not had sex for ... v. difficult sum.

Maybe he will come up! Will hear footsteps on stairs, door will open softly and he will come and sit on the bed! naked! - and ... oh God, am so frustrated.

If only could be like Mum and just have confidence in self and not worry what anyone else is thinking, but that is very hard when you know that someone else is thinking about you. They're thinking how to kill you.

Monday 8 September

8st 11 (serious crisis now), no. of death- threateners captured by police 0 (non-v.g.), no. of seconds since had sex 15,033,600 (cataclysmic crisis).

1.30 p.m. Mark Darcy's kitchen. Have just eaten huge lump of cheese for no reason. Will check calories.

Oh fuck. 100 calories an ounce. So pack is 8 oz and had already eaten a bit - maybe 2 oz - and little bit left, so have eaten 500 calories in thirty seconds. Is unbelievable. Maybe should make self sick as mark of respect to Princess Diana. Gaah! Why did mind think such tasteless thought? Oh well, might as well eat the rest of it as if to draw a line under whole sorry episode.

Think may be forced to accept truth of doctors saying diets don't work because your body just thinks it's being starved, and the minute it so much as sees any food again it gorges like a Fergie. Awake every morning now to find fat in bizarre and horrifying new places. Would not be in least surprised to find pizza dough-likc strand of fat suspended between ear and shoulder or curving out at the side of one knee, rippling slightly in the wind like an elephant's ear.

Is still awkward and unresolved with Mark. When I went down this morning he'd already gone to work (not surprising as was lunchtime) but he had left a note saying to 'make myself at home' and ask anyone I want to round. Like who? Everyone is at work. It's so quiet here. Am scared.

1.45 p.m. Look, it's all fine. Definitely. Realize have no job, no money, no boyfriend, flat with hole in which cannot go to, and am living with man I love in bizarre, platonic housekeeper-style capacity in giant fridge and someone wants to kill me, but this, surely, is temporary state.

2 p.m. Really want my mum.

2.15 p.m. Have rung police and asked them to take me to Debenhams.

Later. Mum was fantastic. Well, sort of. Eventually.

She turned up ten minutes late in top-to-toe cerise, hair all bouncy and coiffed with about fifteen John Lewis carrier bags.

"You'll never guess what, darling," she was saying as she sat down, dismaying the other shoppers with the carrierbag spread.

"What?" I said shakily, gripping my coffee cup with both hands.

"Geoffrey's told Una he's one of these 'homos', though actually he's not, darling, he's a 'bi', otherwise they'd never have had Guy and Alison. Anyway, Una says she isn't the least bit bothered now he's come out with it. Gillian Robertson up at Saffron Waldhurst was married to one for years and it was a very good marriage. Mind you, in the end they had to stop because he was hanging round these hamburger vans in lay-bys and Norman Middleton's wife died - you know, who was head of the governors at the boys' school? So in the end, Gillian ... Oh, Bridget, Bridget. What's the matter?"

Once she realized how upset I was she turned freakishly kind, led me out of the coffee shop, leaving the bags with the waiter, got a great mass of tissues out of her handbag, took us out to the back staircase, sat us down, and told me to tell her all about it.

For once in her life she actually listened. When I'd finished she put her arms round me like a mum and gave me a big hug, engulfing me in a cloud of strangely comforting Givenchy Ill. "You've been very brave, darling," she whispered. "I'm proud of you."

It felt so good. Eventually, she straightened up and dusted her hands.

"Now come along. We've got to think what we're going to do next. I'm going to talk to this detective chappie and sort him out. It's ridiculous that this person's been at large since Friday. They've had plenty of time to catch him. What have they been doing? Messing around? Oh, don't worry. I've got a way with the police. You can stay with us if you want. But I think you should stay with Mark."

"But I'm hopeless with men."

"Nonsense, darling. Honestly, no wonder you girls haven't got boyfriends if you're going out pretending to be superdooper whizz-kids who don't need anybody unless he's James Bond, then sitting at home gibbering that you're no good with men. Oh, look at the time. Come on, we're late for your colours!"

Ten minutes later I was sitting in a Mark Darcy-esque white room in a white robe with a white towel on my head surrounded by Mum, a swathe of coloured swatches and somebody called Mary.

"I don't know," tutted Mum. "Wandering round on your own worrying about all these theories. Try it with the Crushed Cerise, Mary."

"It's not me it's a social trend," I said indignantly. "Women are staying single because they can support themselves and want to do their careers, then when they get older all the men think they're desperate re-treads with sell-by dates and just want someone younger."

"Honestly, darling. Sell-by dates! Anyone would think you were a tub of cottage cheese in ASDA! All that sillydaft nonsense is just in films, darling."

"No, it's not."

"Durrr! Sell-by date. They might pretend they want one of these bimbas but they don't really. They want a nice friend. What about Roger what's-his-name that left Audrey for his secretary? Of course she was thick. Six months later he was begging Audrey to come back and she wouldn't have him!"

"But. . ."

"Samantha she was called. Thick as two short planks. And Jean Dawson, who used to be married to Bill - you know Dawson's the butchers? - after Bill died she married a boy half her age and he's devoted to her, absolutely devoted and Bill didn't leave much of a fortune you know, because there isn't a lot of money in meat."

"But if you're a feminist, you shouldn't need a ..."

"That's what's so silly about feminism, darling. Anyone with an ounce of sense knows we're the superior race and the only nigger in the, woodpile is-"

"Mother!"

"-when they think they can sit around when they retire and not do any housework. Now look at that, Mary."

"I preferred the coral," said Mary huffily.

"Well, exactly," I said, through a large square of aquamarine. "You don't want to go to work and then do all the shopping if they don't."

"I don't know! You all seem to have some silly idea about getting Indiana Jones in your house loading the dishwasher. You have to train them. When I was first married Daddy went to the Bridge Club every night! Every night! And he used to smoke."

Blimey. Poor Dad, I thought, as Mary held a pale pink swatch up against my face in the mirror and Mum shoved a purple one in front of it.

"Men don't want to be bossed around," I said. "They want you to be unavailable so they can pursue you and. . ."

Mum gave a big sigh. "What was the point of Daddy and me taking you to Sunday School week after week if you don't know what you think about things. You just stick to what you think's right and go back to Mark and . . ."