14 May 2008 ›  1:45pm

As we all know my coping mechanisms aren’t as refined as they perhaps should be for a person of my age and station. We all know I like to have a cocktail and a flirt/snog when I’m down in the dumps. We all know that I’m prone to make out with the inappropriately stupid, or young, or stanky—particularly when my ego is up on blocks. But you may not have known (it came as a bit of a shock to me), about the snacking. You know those women who waste away when their hearts are broken? Who can’t eat or sleep or apply blush? I am not one of them. No, it turns out that in between moans and theatrical sighs, all I want to do is eat and sleep. Nor do I look pale and drawn. I am as healthy as a horse (and will weigh nearly as much if I keep this up). Ali and I agree that if I’m going to be eating my feelings, I should at least attempt to keep it gourmet. It’s one thing to sob my way through a delicate pear tart, but the minute I tear into a box of Hostess or Enteman’s is the minute that the whole thing becomes a trailer tragedy.