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Diary of a yummy drummy: Brooke may be seeing Cameron but at least I’m driving a Merc and have bigger boobs

I've seen Brooke once since she dropped the H bomb on me that she's now seeing Cameron Knox-Kennedy. When I went to pick up the rest of my stuff, she was prancing around in what looked suspiciously like a La Perla Croisette Push-Up Bra, even though I told her when we were going through the catalogue online that push-up bras make her A-cup boobs look pathetic.

"I thought we talked about that bra. It makes you look like a 14-year-old desperado queueing up outside the Wez," I greeted her.

She was all: "What the fuck are you doing, letting yourself into my house without ringing the doorbell first?"

"Calm the head," I said. "I came to get the rest of my stuff, you treacherous, flat-chested cow."

I know she was seriously thinking of lunging for me and yanking my hair, as I'd just got my extensions done, but she was obviously getting ready for a big date with CKK and didn't want things to get messy. Fair enough.

I left the front door open and marched past her up the stairs, carrying each item of my clothing out to the car one by one (Dad finally got me insured on his Merc SLK as he doesn't want to be seen in it anymore "now that everyone's downsizing". But I think the real reason is because he found out that Coleen Rooney drives one). It's, like, a two seater, so I can't exactly fit much into it. And Brooke was being no help. She was in the bathroom, applying bronzer to her décolletage in the vain hope of creating some sort of illusion of cleavage.

"You're like Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel there," I told her. "Except he didn't have such a ridiculously tiny canvas to work with."

I think she said "fuck you" under her breath.

I was like: "I don't have room in the car for most of my shit. I'll send Dad to get the rest. Enjoy my sloppy seconds."

And that was the last time we spoke.