Monday: Appraisal time at the Goldfish Action Group. I'd managed all weekend without crutches - in use since I was almost killed by chairman David in a misunderstanding over involvement in the loans-for-peerages scandal - but decided to take them to the meeting. "When pay comes in, principles go out," says Vorderman, flatmate and Countdown addict, as I leave the flat with them. Turn to explain that the charity world is so badly paid that you can't practise what you preach, but instead I drop them in the recycling bin.
Appraised by Clare, head of policy, and David. Office cleaner Julie is in the room polishing the goldfish tank wall divides, so she takes the role of chorus, with sharp intakes of breath when Clare suggests that my outside office eating habits - of fish - make me "a flawed campaigner".
I am tempted to reply that her orange outfits and henna goldfish tattoos make her more than flawed, but David has already noted a lack of charity in my personal conduct. Memories here areclearly shorter than that of a goldfish (10 seconds maximum), so I receive a basic cost of living increase and no bonus. I ask to convert tax-free personal allowance from GAG for home fish tank maintenance into cash. They reluctantly agree after I lie about Vordeman's allergy to scales. Soap would have been more true.
Appraisal is followed by interview with external Investors in People assessor currently giving GAG annual audit. He is greatly concerned by lack of counselling for staff after 'stress situations' and promises to raise issue before agreeing renewal of accreditation.
Wednesday: David in fury because IIP certificate suspended. Fear I'm to blame, but turns out GAG failed because Julie is not sufficiently au fait with current business plan. Left alone in ensuing row to carry on investigation into who left inflatable goldfish as love token in my bed.
Something Clare said in appraisal made me remember her grab at me after a failed attempt to woo Prince William as royal patron. Could she be the one?