There was a strange sticky substance all over the kitchen worktop when I got home last night. I had no idea what it was but assumed Jack had something to do with it. He'd gone out about 5 seconds after I'd arrived home so I couldn't tackle him about it. Instead I just wiped it up quickly and disappeared morosely into the Shed with half a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, screw-top cheap Chilean. I was miserable and drinking for drinkings sake rather than pleasure. I'd had an extremely distressing lunchtime experience.

A guy I know, fairly handsome, small but perfectly formed, initially appearing quite interesting in a deep and smouldering way but eventually just obviously plain dull, had opened a new cafe and I'd promised to give it a try.

I wasn't overly impressed by the canoodling couple who I took to be the only customers, sitting in the window seat as I went through the door, less so when one of them turned out to be the waitress. I waited patiently at the counter whilst the manageress ignored me, the only paying customer in the place, and continued her animated conversation with her friend. Eventually, when she did take my order, the only order she had, she got it wrong twice. The microwave kept tripping the fuse and on her last trip back from the meter cupboard, she casually asked when my baby was due.

I very quietly mumbled that I wasn't pregnant, just fat. It would have been kinder to leave it at that. Instead, she comforted me with the observation that at least when I did get pregnant, there'd be plenty of room for baby. I fled before she saw my bottom lip start to wobble.

By the time I arrived back at my desk, the bitter, undrinkable latte had leaked into the soggy, incorrectly-topped jacket potato and the whole lot had to go in the bin. I'd just wasted the best part of a fiver and been mortally humiliated into the bargain.

I know it's probably my duty to provide feedback but he's such an arrogant little arse, that he'd just dismiss it as a fat cow's rant. So instead, I shall observe how long the place stays open, whilst steathily disseminating seeds of criticism, and avoiding it like the plague.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, the sticky substance is identified as exploded grapefruit juice. What an unusual phenomenon. It wasn't even out of date, unlike the geriatric carton of tomato juice beside it on the top shelf of the cupboard. The new bag of gram flour is ruined, so no more bhajis for a while. Similarly the gluten-free stuff left over from a Pixie Peter visit has had to go, but he was last seen heading up north, all loved up with his apparently equally monogamy-obsessed traffic warden so I don't think it will need to be urgently replaced.

I've never seen fruit juice blow up to such a size but I have been uncharacteristically careful about eating the prescribed 5-a-day for the last week or so. I can only think it is this which has caused the sudden and remarkable tummy expansion and studiously to stick to Sheila's home-made Iced Fingers and cheese scones instead.