Laydee Stardust

I'm in between showering and a late lunch. The boy is hard at work in his big scary office, as are my two flatmates scattered somewhere on the other side of London - and I'm lounging around home lapping up my first day off since I started this whole freelance journalism malarky.

Only just started to get the hang of this whole online diary - and would like to ask anyone vaguely interested to subscribe to my little blog.

Especially if you're the kind of person who can't believe Paris Hilton is out of the slammer. Oh, how I'd love to be under house arrest myself. Just imagine - a constant supply of DVDs, food and creature comforts. Sounds like heaven.

Right. Time to put some slap on and venture into the outside world that is not Beverley Hills - but sarf London.

He's wonderful. He's 24 - handsome, witty and even has a proper job as a lawyer up town. Although we've only been together a couple of months, there's quite a bit of history behind this one.

But to keep it short...

We met a couple of years back when he was going out with one another pal of mine - and I was with a mate of his. Then after hooking up last summer at a post-finals university party I moved to the smoke. Pretty regularly we started meeting up for boozy nights - which, a few months ago, turned into a relationship.

He treats me to lovely meals out, and makes an effort to get on with all my friends, and he make me feel, well, safe.

But - and there's always a but (or three) - something just isn't right. Maybe it's the way he is at mercy to his Blackberry. But sometimes he makes me feel like the most important person in the world - and other times I won't hear from him for days.

Anyway - this was just a brief intro to J. Just so you know who I'm talking about.

Life as a lady in London is complicated. Men will take you out for fancy dinners only to drop you halfway through the main course for a business client. Long lost cousins will get you drunk on £50 bottles of wine and confess they want to bed you. And flatmates will bring home sleazy Spaniards to clog up the shower plug with pubes. I moved to the city just under a year ago. Since ditching the provincial 'burbs for the smoke's bright lights, I've learned to deal with the highs and lows of what London has to offer.

It sounds pig-headed to say I lead a colourful life. Everyone has their own story - and I'm sure mind is monumentally dull compared with the Christian loon who hollers at gaggling girls on Piccadilly Circus - and often tells me I'm going straight to hell.

But it's not very often that we get to reveal our innermost thoughts to the world. If there's one thing that defines Londoners - we don't talk. We don't do relationship chat in the office - and wouldn't dream of telling the old lady on the train about our medical ailments.

So from body image, to boyfriend woes, to friendship fracas, and work bust-ups. This is where I tell it like it is - no secrets.