#2 Yasmin

Today, has been a bad day.

Firstly, the new intern Francesca is absolutely useless; and when I say useless I mean I am wholly offended that the Chic Fashion Editor hired her over the hundreds of girls that applied, the hundreds of girls that would have murdered their own mothers with their own stillettos to work for one of the fastest growing women's magazines in the UK.

And of course, "Frankie" was assisting me today on one of the biggest shoots I've ever had to organise, styling the beautiful Thandie Newton for a Winter Wonderland themed story. By "helping me organise" I mean that instead, Frankie asked for Thandie's autograph mid-shoot, brought the wrong shoot's wardrobe and spent 2/3 of the afternoon on her phone to "Seffy" because

"babe, she just saw Mischa Barton walking down the Kings Road, you know who she is don't you?".

So after royally pissing poor Thandie off, and ensuring that she will never ever, ever ever, reshoot for Chic again, I check my phone after leaving it for 3 hours.

4 new voicemails.

"Yazzy, baby it's Stefan. I know you're busy but try and call me back. Need to know what the plan is this evening? Your place or mine? Call me angel."

"Yaz, forgot, I'm just about to hop on the tube. Give it 20 before you call"

"Hey, again, just me, you know, your boyfriend. Surely you get a lunch break or something? Really need to know when you get off tonight, I know you said you'll be shooting late but give me an ETA please beautiful"

"Yasmin, forget tonight. I'm going out with the boys. Maybe call me when you have time in your schedule for your boyfriend."

Oh boy. Here we go again. How is it that I work all damn day, most nights, I never go out so I could never cheat and still my oversensitive boyfriend can find a way to make me feel like Ashley crapping Cole every time I don't answer the phone.

I've been saying I'm going to break up with Stefan every day, and sometimes twice a day, for approximately 3 months now. I can't pinpoint a solid reason why I should break up with a smart, considerate man, who also I'd like to point out, is on the brink of becoming a world famous supermodel, but I think it has something to do with the fact that he cried at Glee last week.

So I broke up with him today. I think it went well. I mean, he cried, again, and wouldn't let go of my hand when I told him I had to rush to Grace's house as an emergency, but after following me about a mile screaming "fine,fuckyouFUCKYOUYOUFUCKINGSLUT", he let me ascend on to the Tube to get to my Gracie in North London.

After this mildly traumatising ordeal, obviously the evening was only to get better as I made the 15 minute walk I knew oh so well to get to Grace's. The streets are all unlit, and after witnessing what looked like a thwarted drug deal, I was aware I was being followed. I took a left and entered a cul-de-sac, strolling toward a streetlight for what little protection it allowed, reached into my purse for my pepper spray (I stocked up on a recent visit to South Africa), turned round and shouted

"I KNOW BRAZILIAN JIU-JITSU ASSHOLE SO IF YOU'RE GONNA MUG ME THEN GO AHEAD, TRY YOUR FUCKING HARDEST"

Turns out it was Stefan. And he had followed me half way to Grace's. After threatening to drop kick him in the balls and call the police he sobbed that he thought "we were forever" and skulked away round a dark corner.

Finally, after an exhausting Friday, I arrive at Gracie's door. It's a shit apartment. The reception door to the block practically hangs off its hinges and Grace would also be on the 13th floor of a block of flats that has no working lift, but I can't help but smile at my poor sweet friend as she answers the door in those wretched penguin pyjamas that I thought she had given to Oxfam before uni. Her pretty little pink cheeks were stained with mascara, her normally sparkly green eyes looked sad and wide like a hungry bush baby and her glossy chestnut mane was fashioned into some wild new variation of a chignon; the very picture of self-pity.

As I hug the shit out of my sad little penguin friend, I hear wheezing from the staircase that could only belong to someone with tired little legs from sprinting up 13 floors.

Grace laughs through her fresh tears, "I guess Eva's here".