Name: Dylan Jones
Job: Editor, GQ
Professional mission: Continue to grow GQ
Personal mantra: Big smile, short memory
6.30am Woken by two young girls, both needing urgent attention. My daughters. Last week, the six-year-old needed me to help her with a jigsaw, while the eight-year-old wanted me to help with a letter she was writing to Tony Blair about recycling. If he doesn't answer it, there's going to be trouble.
8.00am Breakfast meeting at The Wolseley or Cecconi's with a contributor, a photographer, a client, a PR or another editor. OJ, large cappuccino and maybe a boiled egg. Deep glamour.
9.00am Arrive at work and spend 45 minutes reading the papers. We get most titles, apart from The Times, as there doesn't seem to be much reason to read it anymore.
9.45am Swift meetings with the deputy editor, managing editor, art director, features director and anyone else unlucky enough to get in my way. Debrief about last night's parties/openings/screenings etc. Typically, forget to congratulate my PA on her new hair. Tiptoe around her all morning.
10.15am Meet potential client.
11.00am Meeting with the publishing director regarding any number of things.
11.03am Meeting with a potential new contributor.
11.30am Twenty minutes of e-mails.
11.50am Massive gossip session with the fashion director.
12.00pm Read proofs.
1.00pm Lunch at Le Caprice, The Ivy, The Wolseley or The Wallace Collection. Or, if it's a particularly busy time of the month, a Pret sandwich, another cappuccino and some carrot juice. More glamour.
2.45pm An external meeting.
4.00pm More proof-reading, e-mails, and a planning meeting or three. We're usually working on six issues at once, all of which will contain something ludicrously ambitious that we may or may not pull off.
6.30pm The opening of something.
8.00pm Evenings end in either of two ways. The first involves driving home from whatever function I've been at, doing homework with the kids, working for at least an hour, and then watching something I've recorded on Sky+. The second involves going to a dinner thrown by someone who's been kind enough to invite me, then ending up in a nightclub in Buenos Aires with Piers Morgan, Roger Alton and Girls Aloud. Or, more probably, Tatu.