Bloody Guido fucking Fawkes is sitting here in the middle of the media village. How did he get in? He is not even a real writer, he is just a bloody blogger. He even mixes up his apostrophe’s. I didn’t go to the universities of East Anglia, Paris and Cambridge to get an MPhil in European literature just to be taunted by a bloody right-wing blogger.

Sat there on his bloody lap-top smirking. “Hi Ros” he called over when I was bringing back Simon H his coffee. Didn’t recognise him from his old photo. Went over to him and he asked me to guess who he was. The goatee beard should have been a giveaway.

Should have known it was him from the smell of alcohol. Felt drained just talking to him for ten seconds.

The conference is tedious. Got packed off today to Women2Win fringe yet again – for the third year running. They wouldn’t send Sir Michael to do it would they? Why is it always me? Tedious, tedious, tedious. Did some work on the novel when no-one was looking. Thinking of introducing a new character. A semi-literate internet pundit with a history of drug and alcohol abuse. With a fat bum. Hot or not? Big fat tick in the not box for him.

Reporting is hardly stretching, writing is fulfilling, creative, just more me. Dreadful photographers were camped all afternoon in the village waiting for Boris to come out of the press office. They wolf whistled at some of the PR girls to pass the time. I went to Cambridge to share my days with wolf whistling photographers and bloggers. No one has commented on my blog all day. Why? How does Guido do it? Maybe it was the too optimistic pay-off line ‘But they emerged heartened and most willingly signed the proffered cards thanking Cameron and urging him to “Keep up the good work!” ‘ Could have been written by Steve bloody Hilton himself.

Memo to self: must be more controversial.

I’m so disillusioned with the conference season. It will be all over soon. Merci for small mercies. Exhausting time.