‘How about a series on serial killers?’ suggests Tom. ‘Compare and contrast the Yorkshire Ripper, the Moors Murderers, that Dr Death guy.’ I concentrate on concealing my disgust.

‘Or something more broad, like tyrants and despots. Stalin, Hitler, Pinochet – we could have an audience participation deciding who was the most vicious,’ adds Mark.

‘Too gruesome,’ comments Gray, and I’m relieved that someone has articulated my killjoy thoughts. ‘Let’s stick to what we do well, humiliating and exposing the normal blokes.’

‘Yeah,’ says Ricky. ‘We could follow guys on their stag weekends. You know, get shots of them licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts or being tied naked to a lamppost.’

‘Good idea,’ enthused Fi. ‘We could film the hens puking into their handbags singing “Let Me Entertain You” whilst taking their bras off.’

‘No, no. I think we should go more up-market,’ comments Di.

I want to kiss her.

‘Let’s do some undercover work on politicians and fat cats. Let’s film them standing on bar tops or licking Guinness off prostitutes’ breasts.’

I want to kick her.

‘Or we could do a series of celeb profiles?’ I suggest.

‘Absolutely,’ enthuses Jaki. ‘Dig up all their dirty past, lots of photos they’d rather not see published.’

‘No,’ I shout, marginally more forcefully than I intended. ‘Something more’ – I hesitate, nervous of how my suggestion will be received – ‘profitable.’

‘Well, skeletons in the cupboard are profitable. The advertisers are bound to see the appeal and put loads of money behind it,’ comments Fi.

‘I mean emotionally profitable. Perhaps we could do a show about how celebs are getting along with their millennium promise or, if they didn’t make one, perhaps we can get them to pledge something improving now.’

‘Maybe,’ mumbles Ricky. But he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic. I look at the others but they are all steadfastly concentrating on the cobweb in the right-hand ceiling corner of the room. I’m embarrassed, but push on.

‘OK, maybe that’s not too keen, but I’m just trying to think of something more educational than the current mix.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Quite right.’

‘Definitely agree,’ chorus the cobweb-gazing brigade.

‘Do you?’ I smile enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, like a programme on cross-dressing. Now that’s educational.’

‘Or something on plastic surgery. Perhaps some horror stories of women desperate to keep their husbands and prepared to go to amazing surgical lengths to do so – all the better if the operations have gone wrong.’

‘Don’t be so stereotypical,’ shouts Fi. ‘What about male plastic surgery stories? Penis extensions – now there’s a tale to tell.’ The room erupts into sniggers. I don’t join in. I’m relieved when someone suggests that we need to go to the pub for a ‘break from the intensity’. I’m praying that the salt and Linneker versus cheese and onion debate will overwhelm, and that the original subject of the meeting is forgotten.

15

I have never worked so hard in my life as I have these past few months. Or, more honestly, work has never been so hard. I fail to notice spring; the bit of me that appreciates green buds and blue skies was only ever a small constituent of my make-up, and has now been snuffed out completely as I surround myself with schedules, deadlines, target revenues, TVRs and ARPs. I’m not busy enough. I decide that my social life needs new impetus, so I attend every party, reception, première, dinner and event that I’m invited to. Recently I’ve broadened my life experiences to include visiting Le Cirque du Soleil, participating in a pony-trekking weekend in north Wales and an all-day aerobathon for charity, attending two hen nights (both with essential stripping policeman) and joining Issie’s pottery class. For all this frivolity, I have no fun.

This indiscriminate acceptance of invitations has filled my hours, but there have been two annulling consequences. The first is that I’ve discovered that my previous opinion on mankind (considered by many to be harsh) was in fact generous. People are generally much more tedious than even I estimated. The women I meet are unilaterally obsessed with their waistlines and, as often as not, individually obsessed with some waster. The men I meet are as per my original evaluation. They are insincere commitment phobes or spineless and married. And whilst I personally am still resolutely avoiding commitment, I dislike this characteristic in others. In the past I was able to endure the trite lines and clammy hands at least until the morning after the night before. Now it’s impossible for me to fake interest for as long as it takes most of them to fight their way to the front of the bar queue. Issie is thrilled that I am sticking to my New Year’s resolution.

‘Other than Darren you haven’t had any casual sex this year.’ She blushes. ‘Well, including Darren you haven’t had any casual sex.’

I don’t comment.

The second consequence of my indiscriminate acceptance of invites is that by making myself more available I have made myself less desirable. I worry that I am gaining the reputation of being one of those people who attends the opening of a marmalade jar. For this reason I have resolutely turned down all invitations for this weekend. I refused an offer to fly to New York to ‘shop till I drop’. The guy who made the offer was being euphemistic. He actually wanted me to shop until my knickers dropped. I said no to a reception at the Tate Modern tonight and no to drinks with the team. I refused a dinner and fancy-dress party tomorrow, and a lunch on Sunday with friends. Issie is spending the weekend doing some intensive training with a group of people who are also running the London Marathon and Josh is taking Jane to the country. Not for a romantic weekend, but to bin her. He mistakenly thinks this is the gentleman-like thing to do. Issie and I tried to explain that, almost certainly, Jane would prefer to have her heart broken on her own territory, but Josh pointed out that he’d lose his deposit on the hotel room if he no-showed. As they are both out of town I’ll spend the weekend without human contact.

I am hopeful, expectant. I’m looking forward to being alone with my face pack, fridge and remote control. I sit down with a highlighter pen, the television section of the Observer and a bottle of gin. I circle my TV viewing for the night. Coronation Street, a documentary on Brooklyn Beckham (that’s our show), Brookside, Friends, and then I’ll switch to cable for a movie. I catch sight of the date and automatically calculate that it’s one month, three weeks, five days and eight hours since I last saw Darren.

Only quarter of an hour before Corrie starts.

Thirteen minutes.

Another nine minutes to go.

Still quite some time yet. I think I’ll ring Mum.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Oh, hello Jocasta, dear, how are you? I was just talking about you to Bob.’

‘Who?’

‘Bob, you know—’

‘Your neighbour.’

‘Exactly!’

‘What were you saying?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What were you saying to Bob?’ I’m beginning to regret the call.

‘I was just saying I wonder how Jocasta is.’

‘Well, I’m fine.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

‘And how are you?’

‘Oh, I’m fine, except for the old problem.’ I have no idea what the ‘old problem’ is, although doubtless she’s told me on countless occasions; nor do I have any desire to find out. I move the conversation on.

‘I called to ask if you fancy going shopping tomorrow. Unaccountably it’s a Saturday and I haven’t got a wedding to go to.’ I hadn’t realized that I’d called to ask this; the fifteen minutes alone before my viewing started have obviously weighed in heavily. I wait for her gushing thanks that I’ve decided to offer up an entire Saturday, even though it’s not her birthday or anywhere near Christmas. Instead she surprises me.

‘I expect people are a little nervous about inviting you to their weddings, what with your show and everything. Well, dear, I’d love to go shopping with you, but Bob and I are going to a craft fair and it’s been in the diary for some time. I can’t let him down – I know he’d be most disappointed and I’m looking forward to it too.’

I don’t ask what kind of man enjoys a craft fair; nor do I commit myself when she adds hopefully, ‘How about next week?’

I put the phone down and turn the volume up.

Whilst it’s been a constructive weekend (I’ve filed my nails, both fingers and toes, I’ve tidied my cutlery drawer and I’ve descaled the kettle and the showerhead), by Sunday afternoon I’m beginning to wish I’d accepted the invite to lunch. I’ve read the Sunday papers, including the small ads for the removal of unwanted lines, fat and hair, as well as those for the addition to breasts and penises. I’ve watched a backlog of recorded programmes and all the soap omnibuses. In fact, most of my entertainment and all my food have been generated from radioactive boxes. Although I have ample time on my hands, I can’t be arsed to drag myself to Tesco’s or even Cullen’s. There really is no point in buying fresh herbs and vegetables, chopping and sautéing for one. Instead I search my cupboards for inspiration. I don’t find it. I can’t think of a recipe that happily combines peanut butter, Carr’s water biscuits and All Bran. The contents of my fridge are neither useful nor ornamental. There’s a mouldering jar of capers and another of anchovies (bought for a dinner party), Tabasco, Yakult and Red Bull. Of course, there’s the foundation bottle of champagne, but even I don’t like drinking Veuve Clicquot alone. Instead I defrost things unsavoury. Cardboard food from cardboard boxes – singleton’s food.