MICHAEL O’Leary needs me. He may not know he needs me, but he really does. If he’s going to turn Ryanair towards customer care, then bottom to top training is going to be required, and I’m his woman.

NEVER mind dress-down Fridays.

THE minute I saw the two lists, I started to measure myself against them. No possibility of ignoring them. I’ve spent my whole life addicted to doing magazine quizzes that invite you to fill out a number of questions which, in turn, will reveal all about you. You know, the kind of thing where the questionnaire purports to find out if you’re attractive to the opposite sex? Whenever I filled those in, I would find a position barely a notch above bubonic plague.

ANOTHER summer gone by without me swimming with dolphins. All I can ever boast is swimming with jellyfish.

We lie about ourselves because we prefer the version we make up to the one we grew up with.

I HAD 14 men in my bedroom this weekend. Separately, for the most part, although two brothers visited on Saturday at the same time.

NOBODY does an eye roll like Stephanie. Like last week. On a lovely morning, the cherry trees outside dappled with sunshine, she’s at her desk talking to a client who should be in a room with me discussing her career, but who, we gather by eavesdropping on Steph’s conversation, is in fact at our old premises in Northumberland Rd.

I MAY be the only homeowner in Ireland who doesn’t have custody of their own garden.

IT’S a curious paradox that, at a time when we have a robust regulatory authority devoted to the protection of data, and therefore, by inference, devoted to the protection of privacy, we have so many people so resolutely determined to sacrifice their own privacy, no matter what it may cost them in the long term.

YOU don’t want to get caught in the crosshairs of technology and gossip.