Being cooped up with Brooke was doing bad things to my sanity. But this week, spring is in the air: Dannii Minogue's preggers ("The other Minogue sister would want to hurry up" -- my mother's response when I broke the news), Grazia's talking about spring/summer collections and the thaw has spread as far as our gaff in Clonskeagh. There was nothing for it but to do a major wardrobe and diet detox.
So, there I was in my Marigolds, singing along to The Black Eyed Peas on 98, cleaning out all the presses in the kitchen (it's so satisfying getting rid of the million packets of accumulated pasta -- we can ill afford the carb quotient), when Brooke storms in.
"What in the name of Whitney Port do you think you're doing? It's like, 10am." I decided to be the bigger person (although Brooke technically has a higher waist-hip ratio than me) and rise above this open hostility. "Brooke, why don't you sit down and I'll get you a nice cup of hot water with a squeeze of lemon to kick-start your metabolism. As recommended by, like, Dr Gillian McKeith."
I don't know exactly what happened next -- all I know is that there was some kind of explosion. "Gillian McKeith isn't even a real doctor," Brooke stormed. "I want you out of here by the end of the week!"
I was pretty stunned. She went back up to her room and slammed the door, so I decided to follow. I flung open the door and demanded: "What was that all about?" She had her laptop out and was -- get this -- crying! She was all, "I'm sorry, but you're so insensitive. I'm going through a lot of shit and the only person I can talk to is a stranger on Twitter." I was all: "No, I've been talking to a stranger on Twitter about my problems!" Then I grabbed her laptop. Turns out Brooke is 'Onefckedupgrrl'. We've been confiding in each other on Twitter without even realising it!