Monday 14 August 8st 12 (estimate); cigarettes 16 (G); alcohol units 6; calories 3,845 (bad)

Humph. Daniel shot off early this morning to go home and change before work (nobody in the office knows we're having an affair). I woke in a panic at 9.45am, rushed to get weighed, spotted myself in the mirror and screamed. In the middle of my neck was the biggest love-bite you've ever scene. It had the surface area of a Mars Bar ice-cream, but more the shape and colouring of a smattering of Mac blusher.

Bloody Daniel. I bet he thought it was really funny. I stood quivering on the scales, trying to remember what to do. Love-bites used to be all the rage but somehow they have completely slipped out of fashion, to the point where they are plainly unacceptable. The last time I had one I was in the sixth form and it was Abnor Rimmington off the bus. What was I supposed to do? A polo-necked jumper? But the temperature was 90 degrees so I started rifling through my drawers in the illogical hope that an Hermes scarf might have clambered in there unnoticed and I could bring off a sort of Angela Rippon-meets-air-hostess-scarfy look that might cover it up. Then I remembered the toothpaste trick - covering the love-bite in toothpaste to seal it in, putting a layer of Rimmel Hide and Heal on top, then smoothing the whole area - including the rest of the neck - with foundation. If anyone noticed, you said you had bumped into a lamp-post.

It was 10.45am when I had finished and the result was really rather impressive.

Unfortunately, however, by 10.46am the love-bite was emerging from behind the toothpaste like a midday equatorial sun from behind a light cloud. There is no way I am going to work with this on me. A PE mistress and one from Abnor Rimmington is one thing, but Perpetua, and, in effect, one from the headmaster is another altogether. Right, I am going to bloody well ring Daniel at work and give him what for.

Later. Daniel is being completely Japanese about this. He won't apologise. Or at least, he has apologised but I consider his apology inadequate. Furthermore, he is not accepting responsibility for what he has done. And I am not at all sure how sorry he is.

His initial response was to roar with laughter and say, "But, Bridge, I'm sure it looks absolutely lovely. You could start a new trend. You're a publicist. Why don't you place some articles in the newspaper? 'Whatever happened to the Love-bite?' 'Suddenly there are more Love-bites everywhere!!' You'll be in the very van of fashion. Everyone will want one. Linda Evangelista will ..."

"Allright, shut up," I muttered. "It's not funny, and I'm not coming into work. So you'd better apologise, now and then get me out of trouble with Perpetua."

"But it's not my fault."

"Yes it is. You did it on purpose."

"I did not. I was carried away with passion. Actually, it's your fault for inflaming me to such a point where I was no longer responsible for my actions."

"I insist you apologise," I hissed.

"I am sorry you feel embarrassed by the love-bite, but I did not know I was doing it," he parroted sulkily. Eventually, he got his secretary to tell Perpetua I had called in sick. Sometimes I think he does not realise how difficult it is to keep our affair secret in the office. It is all right for him, but there is something so cliched and pathetic about sleeping with one's boss that no one must know. He says everyone knows anyway, which is complete garbage.

After I put the phone down, though, I started to wonder about what he had said about bringing love-bites back into fashion. Do people always do the same things in bed throughout the ages, or do different activities suddenly become all the rage? If models in magazines and shampoo adverts suddenly all started having love-bites on their necks, would everyone start sucking each other's necks like mad?

Tuesday 15 August

9st 5 (why? why?); cigarettes 23; alcohol units 7 (Tom's fault); Calories 1,574 (VG)

Began day in shock. Tom called last night in a complete panic because three people had rung him up in 24 hours wanting a gay godfather for their babies - which is apparently all the rage since the Canon of Hampshire banned it and he'd gone and said yes to all of them out of uncertainty - of - etiquette trauma.

"They spring it on you as if they're offering you a knighthood, and how can you say no?" he said. "Instead, they're just asking you for a lifetime of presents and free babysitting. I feel like I've got pregnant with triplets. What do you think I should wear for the christening? How about a sort of naval look with a captain's hat and little boxy jacket?"

He was so absorbed by the outfit question it took him 45 minutes to get round to dropping his bombshell. Apparently, he saw Jude going into a restaurant in Notting Hill on Saturday night, holding hands with my father. By this morning, the love-bite, faded and imperceptible under its toothpaste, seemed the least of my worries next to the fact that my father may be sleeping with my second-best friend. That was until I got into the office.

"Bridget," Perpetua yelled at the top of her voice. "You've got a love- bite on your neck! No wonder Daniel was looking so shagged out yesterday"