I'm working 9-5, with five minutes to get ready

The one where she debuts a glossy, tousled bob and struts into the foyer wearing a pinstripe Vivienne Westwood suit and killer heels?

Well, in my mind, that's me.

I have daydreams of gliding into the office with bouncy hair, immaculate makeup and an outfit that wouldn't look out of place on the pages of In Style. I've got a designer leather bag in one hand, a skinny latte in the other and I can actually walk in heels.

I look professional, put-together and practically perfect in every way.

Unfortunately, in my mind is exactly where this little slice of folly stays.

In reality, I can barely be bothered to wash my face.

I'm also wearing a nine-year-old dress and have so much dry shampoo in my hair I look like I'm playing an old lady in a school play.

The idea of dressing up for work is a noble one. Presenting yourself in the best possible way can only be a good thing.

And there are some women out there – women far superior to me in every single way – that actually manage to achieve this.

I used to work with a complete glamourpuss who came into the office every day with manicured nails, elegant heels and professionally blow-dried hair. She was tanned, she was toned, she wore lipliner.

Yeah, that's right, lipliner.

To me, lipliner is the pinnacle of grown-up, sophisticated makeup. It's something you wear on your wedding day, something your wear when you meet the Queen, not something you wear on a Monday.

Anyways, this woman always looked the part and was ruddy good at her job to boot. I had no choice but to admit defeat and watch her waltz around the office while I sat there with Cup-a-Soup on my chin.

Some women are just better aren't they?

Like those shiny happy people at festivals who emerge from their tent with flowers in their hair, Hunter wellies on their feet and not a zit in sight. Meanwhile, I'm marinating in my sweaty cagoule with hair so greasy and skin so crusty it looks like I've been swimming in a deep fat fryer.

By now, it must be pretty obvious to you all that the real reason I'm not gorgeous and groomed is just sheer laziness.

However I think I've got an excuse: my rather unusual job.

How far would I have got when being chased by that drug dealer's Dobermann if I was wearing six-inch heels?

And that man who answered his door with the charming greeting of "I know who you are and if you write one negative thing about me, I'll hunt you down and kill you"? Well, he wouldn't really care if I was wearing eye shadow or not would he? He clearly had other things on his mind at the time.

A perfectly blow-dried hairdo is also pretty useless when you're standing in a rain-soaked pub car park putting together a feature on pigeon racing. Trust me.

So you see, it's not laziness after all, it's common sense.

It's Darwinian.

It's survival of the fittest.

By being unfit.