DEAR DIARY: Five pounds lighter thanks to new fitness regimen battling giant robotic spider with automatic pistols. Still, Daniel takes no notice of me at office, despite my having defeated Illuminati ninjas in Cambodian contest for half the medallion that controls time. Should I send him another smutty e-mail, or would that be too forward?
Number of fags consumed: 4. Have definitely cut back on smoking due to frequency of high-speed motorcycle chases and parachute drops into combat zones (wind keeps extinguishing lighter). Also, difficult to keep ciggies lit when jumping off waterfalls to escape machete-wielding attackers.
Drinks? Yes, please! (Kidding.) Bit of a problem there, I'm afraid. Recent shoot-out at home destroyed most of Mum's wine cellar and all the parents' wedding crystal. How can a girl get plastered when ruthless assassins keep interrupting the family cocktail hour?
Bungee-ballet in great hall a catastrophe. "All By Myself" turns out to be a poor song to accompany workout. Then I become tangled up in bungees, resulting in missed phone call from Daniel. Attempts to extricate self with razor-sharp bowie knife fail abjectly, ruining drapes.
Social Life: another embarrassing dinner party with bunch of smug marrieds who demand to know why I'm still raiding tombs at 32. "Why can't you raid a husband?" someone cracks, causing me to reflexively kung-fu kick him out the third-story window.
Another thing: Who is this brooding yet handsome Mark Darcy I keep meeting in tombs from Egypt to the Arctic? There's something forbidding, yet attractive, about him. I offer to show him my nickel-plated automatics, but he just glowers at me. "Must you always shoot things to express yourself?" he asks. "Or is it just a girlish plea for attention?" The nerve! He hates me. But before I can blast the sod into oblivion, he grabs both my guns, ejects the magazines, and returns them to their holsters—all in a blink of his green, green eyes!
Dear Diary: Think I've been disarmed.