My Lofty Life: Carole Hayman doesn't cut it as a documentary subject

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Deen Perry is having a fly-on-the-wall documentary made about him. Grind teeth in fury when Yasmin tells me. "I've got a novel out in two weeks, why aren't I in a documentary?" Yasmin, who is "styling" Deen, sizes me up. Shakes head at sheer enormity of the task. "See, Deen's got celebrity buzz ... maybe if you got into FFPN." "What's ffpn?" I quaver. Yasmin gives me pitying look. "Feminine first-person narratives ... all about girls and their weight and their boyfriends." Decide to devote rest of the day to penning such a novel.

Weight 9st 8lb. What! Impossible, the scales must lie. Could be the six Buds I downed last night. Swear from now on, will drink only water. Phew. Relief. Bullit prancing about on the scales behind me. He weighs at least 3st, which makes me fashionably anorexic. Nonetheless, do vigorous training (five mins). Fall on floor, groaning. The Boyfriend offers healing spliff. Refuse on grounds it will make me hungry. Boyfriend astonished. Hang on, shouldn't have boyfriend. Novel all about search for one. Shit, it was going so well. What on earth can I write about if I ditch boyfriend? Have coffee (3rd), light fag. Will definitely give up tomorrow. Ha! Overhaul wardrobe. Take Yasmin's advice - first, construct image.

7pm. Left with one pair combat trousers, one pair ancient Doc Martens. Suspect not right for FFPNs. Reclaim see-through spice-girl blouse from bin, and top & bottom false lashes. Boyfriend calls me to supper (will definitely ditch him tomorrow). Smoke spliff, eat huge meal, lie in front of telly, chilled, while boyfriend massages shoulders.

9am. Yasmin rings. "Deen wants you to come to the filming today ... y'know, to be, like, contrast." I am to play the fly, presumably. Blouse ridiculous. Drop false lashes in cat-litter. Fear Yasmin's wrath, but forced to wear Doc Martens and combat trousers. Yasmin rolls eyes. Sticks cigar in my mouth. Deen's loft teeming with film crew. Shena (Deen's friend) stalks about bossily. "Get rid of that," she shouts, pointing at Deen's furniture, "not real enough for a poet". Deen's bathroom wrecked. Shena demands shot for which they install muck-encrusted lavatory. "Trousers down," she barks at Deen. He obeys with look of man who's been there before.

Yasmin dives to adjust his CK underpants. "More bum," yells Shena. "Look like you're composing, Deen." Deen twists face as though taking massive dump. "Better," grunts Shena. "Could do with a hypodermic."

Yasmin chats Shena into making film on me. "She don't look much, but that's a genuine feminist in original condition." I should be in the Antiques Roadshow, or perhaps Natural History Museum. Shena eyes me speculatively. "Cigar's good. We could do a `whatever happened to all those old dykes?'" Have a vision of being filmed on loo with 12in leather dildo.

Stagger home exhausted. The boyfriend is out. After tantrum this morning, sure he has left me. Wail, scream, drink bottle of wine. Grab FFPN notes. At last, inspiration.

2am. Fu..boyfren..fu..Dee...fu.eff.pee.en.

10am. Boyfriend back. Notes incomprehensible. Reminded of comment on school report: "Carole has lost control of sentence construction completely".

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