Diary of Emma d May: The joy of giving up giving up

Sunday 12.01am: Am celebrating giving up giving up smoking at speed-garage warehouse party thrown by Vikram's cousin's girlfriend's best friend. Only gave up because of January peer pressure anyway, and everyone always says giving into peer pressure is bad thing. Don't feel so terrible about failing to kick the weed as Dr Vikram Medical Student informs me it's what's known as "Week III" in giving-up circles - ie, it's three weeks since the New Year and therefore everyone who had excellent Jan 1 intentions has fallen off the wagon, deserted the gym and is back on the booze, fags, and milk chocolate Hobnobs. Who am I to resist national trend? Would be like having a dry-eye on Diana tragedy day, or failing to emit warm Ready-brek glow on day after Labour victory etc. In New Britain, is clearly important to be in tune with those around you and behave/express emotion accordingly. Life has actually become rather simple: Diana Was Angel; The Nanny is Innocent; Meat On The Bone Is Bad and Single Mothers Will Actually Be Better Off Under The New Deal.

12.10am: Anna walks into party emitting sort of "Come and get me" vibe usually given off by likes of Marilyn Monroe, Leonardo di Caprio, Robin Cook etc. Reflect that at least can still be relatively normal person having broken January resolution. Anna, on other hand, looks set for dramatic return to vices she has been missing out on for three entire weeks. But then, until tonight, Anna had given up sex, drugs and alternative stand- up comedy, which, apparently, is new rock 'n' roll.

12.30am: So happy to be smoking again that almost don't need any other substances to enjoy night out (ho-ho). Wonder if dealer lurking by the gents is secret Tory party donor. Vikram shakes his head. "He's not into smack," he says.

1.30am: Anna giving new meaning to chemical generation catchphrase "loved up". Concerned she might start taking kit off at any minute or trying to hump furniture like next-door neighbour's sex-crazed labrador. Try to dissuade her from dancing provocatively with the speaker. Last Monday she messed up some poor guy's divorce case for him because was so speaker- deafened couldn't hear a word in court. "All the best barristers are deaf," says Anna, cheerfully, while admitting said deafness is usually down to age and not club-induced tinnitus. Dylan says he has plan to find Anna a shag. Tell him whatever it is, definitely not to do it.

1.50am: Another yummy cigarette. Chill-out room full of New Year Resolution Failures. At least came clean about mine rather than carrying on usual January web of lies to loved ones. From here can see one girl smoking army-style with hidden fag-end so boyfriend can't see and another girl surreptiously dabbing speed out of front trouser-pocket and then declining narcotics offered by mates with martyrish shake-of-head. Dylan and new- found love Lady Camilla arguing about the fact that he's meant to have cut out the skunkweed to remotivate himself, cope with daily life, get off the sofa at least once a day, etc. What she doesn't realise is that given the choice between skunk and sex, Dylan will eventually plump for the skunk.

3.45am: Have to keep sitting down as batch of pills a bit wobbly. From vantage point of floor spot line of blokes who appear to be queuing up in front of Anna who still looks like she's trying to pull one of the speakers. "Plan's working," says Dylan, smirking, and skips away. Ask smug-looking suit what he's queuing for. He mumbles something about notice by the bar. Where is Dylan?

4am: Spot aforementioned notice in D's unmistakable scrawl: "Any bloke who needs a shag, see girl in red top by speaker to left of sound system." Shit. Can't decide whether to kill Dylan or rescue Anna first.