Bree Van De Kamp, look out...

Slap my arse and call me Judy. Actually, no - just call me Nigella, for I am a newly-appointed domestic goddess. Well, almost. (Only with a rounder backside and no suggestive spoon-licking shots for the imaginary camera in my kitchen.) Yes, pardon my self appreciation here, but the truffles for work did not turn out like little poisoned balls of evil; instead, they were rather nice and I was mightily impressed with my confectionery efforts. As were my colleagues when I handed them out. Happy days indeed.

Yum.

OK, my sister helped me with one batch (I needed 2 pairs of hands - one to roll the truffles, one to dip them in chocolate) but I'm still proud. I even survived a slightly panicky 10 minutes when I thought the white chocolate batch I was making had split in the bowl (cue lots of swearing). They hadn't. I just hadn't taken them off the heat. Panic over. So, in-keeping with my 1950s-housewife image, I have (somewhat belatedly) asked Father Christmas to kindly find the time to fill my stocking with some cookbooks so I can experiment further. I wonder what he might bring.

Even more exciting is how many more working days I have left before Christmas - only two to go! Oh yeah. Had my team Christmas lunch (not a turkey in sight - all veggie!) and the drinks after work on Friday - amusing, to say the least. I was slightly merry, and have a vague recollection of telling my friend G that she had fantastic boobs (whilst copping a feel). And I ended up in a little pub where they were playing reggae. But not just any reggae, oh no. Bad reggae versions of Christmas songs. We left in protest via the Chinese takeaway.