Sing Like No one Likes Ribena

I'm quite poor this month. By quite poor I mean I got paid yesterday and now am back in my overdraft again having paid rent and other such fun expenditures. As a result of this I am living solely off bread and pot noodles. It's a curious thing how much my body hates me right now. The sort of hate usually reserved for an X Factor judge who's made an ill advised decision - you know; super serious.

Usually I'm quite springy. The addition of much crust and dried peas to my diet has made some of the springyness disappear. It's not that my body doesn't want to be springy any more - it's just that it can't be. Because it is leaden. Nightmare. Usually I approach escalators and other such rising aids with a delight that I can bounce up, up and up and reach the top like a brunette tigger with a red bull addiction. The last few days it's been more a case of flumping onto the bottom step and enjoying the feeling of the slatted surface caressing my face as the suits walk all over my back on their way past.

By the end of this month I might start to resemble the bread. This wouldn't be the end of the world as my bread of choice is a particularly tasty 90p Tiger Loaf with black pepper coating. So I'm going to be a feisty tiger by November. I'm wondering whether my skin will resemble that of a tiger, or that of a flaky white loaf. I hope the tiger. I would like to look like a tiger. And it would make me worry less about yeast infections.

I would also get to have whiskers if I were a tiger - it's no secret that I'd genuinely like to have facial hair. Not the kind of facial hair that women sadly get when they reach a certain age - but proper facial hair. A funky moustache and a massive beard that I could keep things in and stroke when I was feeling poignant.

But for now I am just a bit hungry and looking forward to my slices of bread for lunch. It's a wonderful life.