Dear Diary,
In years to come, when I'm trapped in my sinking house a la Johnny Depp's mama in What's Eating Gilbert Grape, the gastric band long having succumbed to the sheer force of what I shovel down my gullett on a daily basis, people will ask themselves "where did I put my keys?" and possibly also "did I leave the iron on?".
You see, dear diary, I know that despite the public's alleged affection for me, the minute I'm done at This Morning, I'm done for good. Doesn't matter that I whored myself out to the BBC for Comic Relief and some wretched remake of Telly Addicts, because BBC viewers have memories like goldfish, but the ITV audience are like elephants in that respect.
So, for the next 13 weeks or so, I'm going to be milking that cash cow for all she's worth, then it's au revoir feckers,...
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