Tracey Emin: I fell for the emotional appeals, but no one bothered to tell me what became of Mariam

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Another day another dollar... Ah, actually, no.

Another day another dollar... Ah, actually, no.

I can't help but wonder just how much the war cost. Two billion? Three billion? Ten billion? I wonder where you find that sort of information?

But it would be good to have it just before an election. The Government spent XXXX on fighting a war which the majority of the British people didn't want. And this mysterious figure alone could win the Bethnal Green & Bow seat for George Galloway.

It was quite comforting to read this week that George was held under siege and threatened while campaigning in my local neighbourhood. Of course, it isn't comforting to hear he was threatened by a gang of Asian men, who are accusing him of being a false prophet. No, the comforting factor was that 30 policemen went to George's rescue. I didn't know we had 30 policemen in Tower Hamlets.

I can tell you a little story about George. I have always been hesitant about telling it. But what the hell, here goes. Back in the late Nineties, when Iraq was under sanctions, I quite happily donated a good few bob to George's relief campaign. I'm not sure how they got hold of me, how they found me, but they did.

One day I got a phone call asking if I would give a work of art to be auctioned and all the funds that were raised would go to a little girl named Mariam, who needed urgent medical treatment. I hastily made a drawing titled "Mariam" and stuck it in the post. I tried to follow up and ask if they had received the drawing, but I never heard a word. Until they rang me asking if I would go to Iraq. I told them I couldn't. It was at this point that campaign workers started to bombard me and harrass me, using all sorts of guilt tactics, saying that if I couldn't go, I should pay for someone else to go. In the end I was in tears and told them never to call me again. I wonder what happened to Mariam - and I wonder what happened to my drawing.

Piggy in the middle

So, after last week's remarks about big and small dicks, sadly there was no queue of eligible men around the block. I had many remarks like "I never knew you were such a size queen", and "you're never going to get a boyfriend now." My friend Joe, who lives in my cottage (never was an address so apt), took great delight in handing me a copy of QX International. This, for those of you not in the know, is a gay contact mag of an extreme variety. (Readers of a sensitive disposition, look away now).

Joe told me to check out "the vodka bottle, 20-stone, 23-inch arms, 56-inch chest, no-text-messaging bodybuilder". When I said "big" last week, I didn't mean that big. Some of the ads were really scary. For example: "Black, sleazy spit-roasting duo, 24 hours, all colours". I screamed at Joe: "What do they do, cook you?" As Joe explained the, erm, ins and outs of "spit-roasting", it was at this point I realised just how naive I am. After so many years of saying Deliverance was one of my favourite films, I've only just understood the line: "You wanna play piggy, boy?"

Self surgery

Oh, it's been a lonely week. Friday night in London, the fourth most exciting city in the world, and Me - voted the sixth most eligible woman in Britain by Tatler - and what am I doing? Sitting in bed eating a Marks & Spencer meal for one, while watching Cosmetic Surgery Live, that's what.

Chuck lit

My ban on going out doesn't seem to be working. I've had two mind-blowing nights out in a row. I got in at 5am this morning and my brain is mashed to a pulp.

But I did have lots of smart conversation. I had the great pleasure of giving the Waterstones literary fiction prize at the British Book Awards, hosted by Richard and Judy. I'd been looking forward to it for ages and ages. The only problem was that I'd overdone it the night before.

Yesterday's hangover was like revenge from the deepest part of Hell. My skull wasn't fitting inside my face. And I was really sick - that kind of projectile vomit that gets stuck inside your windpipe and you know it could jump out at any moment. Normally I can deal with this situation, but not in front of 1,000 literary people at the Grosvenor House Hotel. Sweet, intelligent people, who usually stay home and read. This was their big night out, and there was no way I was going to be seen throwing up on daytime TV

I'm living in a danger zone, but I think I just about got away with it. I'm going to have a quiet weekend finding out a bit more about "Passive Bondage Boy", "Hooded Horny Guy" and many more.

PS: Just for the record: don't take it personally, Mr Angry Small Dick From Surrey.