Monday: Am convalescing at home of Goldfish Action Group chairman, David, after he almost broke my back in violent assault. Number three of unholy trinity in house of horror is Anka, my ex, mother-to-be of my baby, but now Mrs David. Have set up desk in bedroom. Deciding new marketing priorities to encourage me back to office and away from frankly odd atmosphere.
Anka over-keen on nursing role. Have to insist I don't need daily bed bath. And David spends most evenings swimming with his goldfish in vast outdoor tanks and then talking about them over (vegan) supper as if they were his children. Thankfully Julie, the GAG office cleaner, is sneaking in pork scratchings for me to keep my red blood cell count up.
Wednesday: Amazing what you can achieve when not bothered by office colleagues. Sweet talk major goldfish food manufacturer by phone into giving us a penny donation for every tub sold.
Use current incapacity to win his sympathy - injured in the fight for fish welfare, I tell the MD. Sort of true. He's keen to have Keira Knightley launch a joint venture. After her marathon at my bedside, she is suddenly scarce. Realise why when Vorderman, Neanderthal flatmate and Countdown addict, texts to say Keira keeps trying to visit but Anka refuses to let her in.
Friday: First day out in world. Amazing how few drop kerbs there are when you're in a wheelchair, and how people look at you. It's as if having no legs makes you a numbskull. Keen to kick one particularly by bad gawper in balls, but legs still on the blink and I make his nose bleed. Head off in black cab for photoshoot with Keira for fish food donations campaign.
First three failed to stop for me - invisible in my chair, no doubt. Or too much trouble to get ramps out.
Arrive late - but Keira arrives later. Correction, Keira is a no show.
Texts to say she would do anything for me, but her agent has told her appearing on tubs of goldfish food is professional suicide. How does she think I feel?