There’s a saying, isn’t there, that when you’ve had a near death experience, all you want to do is have sex?

Um. Soft . . . grainy rice and, um, sweet, sweet fish. A fishy explosion! The whole thing is . . . delectable. A cuddle on a plate, if you will.

I look exactly like a toilet-roll-holder doll. A toilet-roll-holder doll with orange hair and a very round face.

I wanted Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face, not Bridal Munchkin Drag Queen in A Gypsy Wedding Sequin Frenzy.

I am going to ask her why, when I requested face-slimming, feathery layers à la Jennifer Aniston, she adorned me with a Lego head helmet à la no one since the 1960s.

In all my twenty-seven years of life, I have never before noticed the astonishing similarities between my own head and a tenpin bowling ball. ... Ah, the colours. I should probably mention that the Luxurious Caramel, Sticky Treacle and Ash Blonde I asked for have somehow turned out to be Felt Tip Orange, Poo Brown and Ash . . . as in cigarette.