Okay so when we were last within the pages of my torturously inadequate diarising, we learnt that newly 20 year old me had just discovered the magical allure of non alcohol tasting punch at a party. That introduction resulted in me unleashing technicolour rainbows of vommy all about the party, insulting people and eventually getting rescued by a girl called Natalie. It was a LOT to process, so for this weeks worth of diary entries, we're about to find out all the ramifications surrounding those handfuls of tequila soaked tinned fruit that I fisted into my eating hole. To help me work through the fallout, I'm welcoming the return of my bestie and mock wife, Yvonne or Yvie. Together we'll find out that all my tropical punch hoovering has huge consequences, like missing an actual on air shift, and witnessing my boss blow his top at me. Then for whatever reason my totally delusional self figures that I can fix all of the things I've screwed up, just by slipping on a pair of snazzy new Jag pants, yeah because...why exactly and how is that the solution? It does get me compliments and I certainly don't forget to record that detail in my diary for the benefit of future readers. Cyndy also finishes up at the radio station and a Demi Moore movie affects me way more than I thought it could, even though I have zero memory of it now. Plus Yvie and I revisit that time in the 90's when I was so self absorbed that she was deemed worthy of the task of delivering a "sort your shit out" intervention to me. It was ugly and I totes deserved it, thank goodness Yvie was their to shake some sense into me, kind of like a nurturing but firm Alsatian might shake a rag doll it had nestled between it's huge and rather diggy in teeth, I was shook, and she was happy to be shaking...bless.

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