Monday: House of Commons eerily quiet when I arrive at 8.30am, save in bars where roadtesting 24-hour drinking legislation. Roger Fenton-Green, Tory MP, trustee of Goldfish Action Group - "because above all, Neil, I'm a countryman", - and potential new employer is Cameronite. So much so that Rog hopes to land front-bench job shadowing charities minister and wants me as top-notch researcher. "I know it's a tiddler as briefs go, but with your help, Neil, we can be sharks, make the government splash about, and then soon I'll be hooking a decent catch shadowing a bigger fish. Defence procurement is the one I'd like to find on the end of my line." Feel queasy after fishy metaphors. Almost relieved as walk into GAG offices. No sign at reception of Anka, Latvian ex-lover pregnant with chairman David's child - or mine?
Tuesday: David calls me into his office. Decide to refuse to give DNA sample as not in job description. David swears me to secrecy. Tempted to comment on too many secrets already at GAG. Then he announces good news. Jerome, soon-to-retire bore who is head of publications, has heard he's getting an MBE. All down to my efforts in preparing "the bid". Have vision of Jerome receiving Olympic gold from Seb Coe. David asks me to handle publicity when announcement made on New Year's Day. No mention of baby.
Thursday: Clare, head of policy, has unusual approach to soothing broken hearts. Keeps dredging up dullest tasks for me. Wonder whether it's punishment for the night after drunken (her not me) dinner when I refused to sleep with her. Construct sexual harassment case for traditional lengthy coverage in Telegraph as I archive last seven years of trustee minutes in waterproof filing cabinet. Rog usually only listed as apologies. Tips balance. Call him to make mine.
Friday: Another week endured. Settling on sofa with Vorderman, Neanderthal flatmate and Countdown addict, to watch "greatest hits" DVD of his idol, Carol, performing songs with mathematical associations (2-4-6-8 Motorway, One and One is One) when doorbell rings. Anka, pleading for chance to explain all. David affair been going on intermittently for three years, but she tells me no passion, just convenience. He prefers his goldfish but pays her rent and gives her job at GAG. Baby's financial wellbeing all that counts now, she says. I'm too poor to be a dad. Suggest taking more powerful job with tomorrow's cabinet minister. Anka snorts at mention of Rog. Perhaps slept with him too. Ask if she loves me. Both end up in tears - and in bed. Emotional and career meltdown. Lie awake staring at bedside copy of erstwhile bible How to Get on in the Charity World by Simon Blabb. My dilemma not in index.