Day 1, 10:24am: This morning I have already had a bowl of porridge, a yoghurt, a pear, a cup of coffee and a cup of tea. I’ve just opened a bag of fruit and nut mix and after that I’ll try some popcorn. This will bring me up to 11am. Then I’ll treat myself to either some of that cooked Spanish ham I got in Aldi or else one of their delicious chocolate caramel bars. If that doesn’t get me up to lunch time, I’ll get stuck into the Weetabix.

The biggest problem with working from home isn’t the lack of human contact. It’s the amount of comfort eating you do to replace it.

I’ve always been a bit of a snacker. When I started work in Dublin, my 10am breakfast was two coffee slices and a Danish from the Kylemore shop at the top of Camden Street, washed down with two cups of coffee. I’d go sugar crazy for the next couple of hours. There’s nothing like it when you’re 22.

Then one day I stood up on the desk and started shouting at my English friend Gordon that the Brits were incredibly lucky in the Falklands War, I’d seen a documentary on how the whole fleet was nearly sunk by the Argie air force and then I noticed that everybody in the place was staring up at me. Not all the managers were laughing.  It was cornflakes and tea for breakfast after that.

My snacking now turned towards the vending machine.  A Snickers/King Crisps combo did the trick as long as I remembered to eat the Snickers first (otherwise the crisps coat your teeth and ruin the Snickers experience.  It sounds obvious but you’d be surprised the number of people who get it wrong).

But this was snacking in a controlled environment. The very act of having to go down three floors to the machine kept a lid on it.  And you didn’t want to look like a savage in front of the others.

There’s none of that at home. I’m four seconds from the kitchen. There’s nobody to worry about my greed or productivity. And I’m fairly bored.

I never thought I’d say this; I miss Dirk. Every office has a Dirk, the guy from some place like Denmark who traps you near the coffee-machine with the same chat every day about the people at the roundabout who wait until the last minute to change lanes and it’s funny because if everybody actually queued up oh Jesus shoot me.

We’ve all stood listening to our Dirk thinking this wouldn’t happen if I worked from home. I could be there now catching a few minutes of Tom Dunne or Ryan Tubridy in peace while the kettle boils.

Trust me, you’ll miss Dirk when he’s gone. Morning radio is mainly people reminiscing about the 1980s and a child expert warning that too much telly will make your toddler stupid. I think it might be aimed at 35 year old stay at home moms. That’s not me. So I head back to my lonesome desk with a packet of consolation Hobnobs.

My wife complains that it’s impossible to keep any food in the house, but then she doesn’t spend all day missing Dirk. As far as I know.

Day 1, 11:54 am: I’ve just finished the fruit and nut mix I opened earlier. 590 calories it says here on the pack. Jesus, I try restricting my comfort eating to health food only to learn I’d have been better off with a double cheeseburger. It’s coming up to lunch.

Day 1, 3:14 pm: I had a great bowl of pasta for lunch at the Farmers Market in Mahon Point, where I also bought myself a Rice Krispie cake. I’ve just eaten that. I’m starting to feel full. At least I’ll be able to run this off at my weekly game of 5-a-side soccer tonight.

Day 2, 8:55 am: I ended up hobbling away from soccer after half an hour. I’ve a gammy ankle and it’s starting to feel like it might never be right again for soccer. I weighed myself this morning. I’ve put on four pounds in one week. My man-boobs could do with a training bra.

This is a problem. My weekly games of squash and soccer kept my weight in check. The last time I piled on the pounds at this rate, I ended up looking 43 years of age. Which is actually my age but I’d like to look a bit younger.

If my duff ankle keeps me at home scoffing Hobnobs, then I might be better off going back on the fags. A nice cigarette is like a good friend who keeps your mind off the grub. In the meantime I’ll open that packet of cheddar in the fridge.