Name: Ivan Pollard
Job: Planner, Naked Communications
Professional mission: Work hard, be good, have fun, laugh more
Personal mantra: It's not small, it is just further away than you think
6.30am Spring awake. Check under the bed. Wonder who owns those shoes? Remember that today, the role of Ivan will be played by a short, ugly fella with hairy ears.
6.45am Luxuriate in hot bath and feel guilty about not having written "24" yet ... who would want to spend 24 hours with me? And can I capture the excitement of my life?
7.00am Bump into woman downstairs. Share awkward moment where we know we should know each other but can't remember names. Realise later she is my wife.
7.15am Northern Line. Practise standing still on one leg because you never know when it will come in useful.
8.00am Get in to work. Renew fear and loathing of lift doors, stained carpets and biology teachers.
8.15am Check e-mails and realise I should be somewhere else.
9.30am Read The Guardian. Forget all new things I learned in reading The Guardian with 90 seconds of putting it down.
10.00am Nice meeting with a lovely man in a big company and a nice girl from Naked. Assume I know what I am talking about and get away with it.
12.00 midday Hammersmith & City line to Farringdon. Think of three new ideas for what to do with an Oyster card. One of them could get me arrested.
1.00pm Lunch in a pub with my colleague Georgie. Chip buttie.
2.00pm Repeat entirety of "Four Yorkshire Men" sketch with the bloke in the sweet shop.
2.30pm Meeting with OK person.
3.00pm Meeting with good person.
3.30pm Meeting with great person.
4.00pm Meeting with dentist.
4.45pm Meeting with four Crunchies, one Turkish Delight, two cups of PG Tips and computer.
5.15pm Think of words that rhyme with "truncated".
5.30pm Leave for Royal Opera House to see ballet. It is the wife's birthday. But then every day is my wife's birthday - or at least that's how she makes me feel.
10.30pm Go home. Practise pas de deux and my demi-plie on the way home and realise I could never fill the tights of a Royal Ballet dancer.
11.00pm Go to bed. Drift off to sleep dreaming of the days when Leeds United were brilliant, when Texan bars were 10p and when Derek Morris was a middle-aged man.