The Diary of Emma D May: Doctor, I'm in trouble

Sunday 12.01am: "So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody's having fun." Everybody except us, that is. Christmas party at hospital where Vikram works, where assembled medics are blowing up latex gloves, vomiting all over each other and photocopying their genitals. And that's just the women. Everyone ignoring cries from the geriatric ward next door to turn down the Best Christmas Party Tape In The Universe Ever. Vikram in uncharacteristic tongue-down-nurse's-throat mode (ha ha, he's performing a tonsilectomy, says hilarious fellow doctor). Me and Anna have taken lump of dodgy speed offered by slimy character who we both sincerely hope is not a doctor. Concerned he may have given us some killer drug from the medical stores, as feeling very sick and whizzy. Anna thinks tequila slammers will help.

2am: Feeling bit better, although party has run out of lemon and salt. But, luckily, tequila starting to taste really nice on its own. Have to keep hiding from Dodgy Speed Doctor who is sexually harassing us. Send him away to go and use his bedside manner on the geriatrics who are threatening Old People's Revolution.

3.20am: Really really need to go home as only four shopping days to Christmas, have got no presents and have to work till Christmas Eve. Bastards. Unfortunately, have lost Anna and Vikram. Dodgy Speed Doctor comes over and asks if I want go to Stringfellows. "Er, no," I say. He flashes a set of white teeth. "Trust me," he says. "I'm a gynaecologist." YUK. Where is Anna?

4.10am: Nearly home but dithering outside all-night petrol station. "I'm giving up law to become a nurse," says Anna, who claims career enlightenment came to her while she was throwing up in a bedpan. Try to distract her with barrage of questions. Blue Rizla or Rizla Original? Full fat or semi- skimmed? Reds or Lights? - until man behind little bullet-proof window tells us to piss off.

6.30am: Must go to bed. Only four shopping days to Christmas. Just one little spliff first.

8.30am: Really must go to bed, but seem to have lost will to leave the sofa.

9.00am: "What time do the shops open?" asks Anna. "Maybe we should just go now and sleep later?" Everyone nods and immediately falls asleep.

10.30am: Me and Anna on packed Victoria Line, regretting last eight spliffs and starting to feel a bit freaked out by crowds and general idea of Oxford Street. Suddenly feel v stoned. Roll of Santa wrapping paper stuck into side of my face, but unable to complain due to proximity of mouth to fat bloke's armpit.

10.45am: Decide to have a sit down on pavement outside Top Man. Shopping rage being exhibited all around. Need to sleep. Want to shoot everyone. Kind-faced bloke gives us a quid. For Christmas. Accept it gracefully.

11am: Have drifted towards Habitat. Starting to feel like worst day of my life. Exceptionally stoned and generally floaty feeling not v compatible with the crockery department. Nearly knock over large display of china, then realise security guard thinks we are shoplifters. "Don't be paranoid," says Anna.

2.10pm: Me and Anna forcibly ejected from furnishings department having been spotted asleep on a sofa by some nosey old bag. "Just shows how comfy your sofas are," I try to tell manager. Except it comes out as, "Jubble- jibble-comfy-ahh." Decide to go home. "Let's just get everyone a pill each," says Anna. Have visions of my great auntie Nora off her head. "Maybe not everyone," I say.

PS: In order to avoid the kind of legal proceedings currently dogging a fellow national newspaper diarist, Emma D May would like to make it clear that Alan Clark is the sole owner of the copyright to this diary.