Emma Cowing: Don’t say ‘you look big for your age, Sweetie’

Dear Diary,

Another year older. I’m not sure I can bear it. It’s bad enough having that ghastly Yang Guang living next door to me. He’s taken to yelling out “You’re not getting any younger, love” every time I refuse to indulge in what he calls “mating practice”. Honestly. “Mating practice” my paw. I know perfectly well what he’s up to, and I’m not playing his game. Not unless there’s a significant amount of sweet sherry involved, anyway.

My birthday itself was a disaster. I told the keepers I didn’t want a fuss. Quite frankly, I’d have been happy with a bamboo-tini and a box set of The Killing (I do love those black and white jumpers), but no, they had to make a big deal out of the whole thing, baking me a cake, telling all and sundry that I was having a ‘special day’ and getting Yang Guang to sing Happy Birthday over the fence at me.

“Last one before double figures!” trilled my keeper, as if I needed reminding of the fact. Wish I could do what those Spice Girls do and pretend I’m still a young woman of seven. Or in their case, 37.

As it was, I just stalked straight past the cake and went for a nap. The last thing a girl needs when she’s getting older is a fatty dessert. After my keepers told the press I eat 9,000kg of bamboo a year (what? Like humans don’t eat a similar weight in Nandos) I have been extremely sensitive about my figure. They say black and white stripes are slimming, but I’m not so sure. They might work over at the zebra enclosure, but it’s a different story when you’re, well, panda-shaped. I swear I’d give up a week’s worth of bamboo for a session with the personal shopper at Harvey Nichols, a cycling work out with Sir Chris Hoy and a Botox appointment.

To be perfectly honest, I’ve been a bit out of sorts ever since the “close but no cigar” situation with Yang Guang. It all started so well, too. He was so nice and gentlemanly when we met for the first time at the end of the tunnel of love, and I just don’t know what went wrong. Maybe I hadn’t put enough Touche Eclat on my dark circles, or perhaps he’s got some panda back in Beijing he’s just not told me about.

Certainly he’s been trying to make it up to me ever since, with all this talk about “mating practice”. Fat chance. He had his opportunity and he didn’t take it. He’ll just have to wait until the three-day conception window next year before we try again. Although, who knows, I might have a headache. I haven’t decided yet.

I’ve been trying to distract myself from the whole situation with this thing called “the Fringe” that’s been going on in Edinburgh recently. I’m not quite sure what it means, but it seems to involve a lot of English people covered in facepaints, a fair amount of unicycling and industrial quantities of alcohol. To be perfectly honest, I quite fancied getting involved, too. I thought it might cheer me up and, anyway, I always thought I’d be a natural on the stage. Why else would so many people pay so much money to traipse pass my living quarters every day?

I started dreaming up ways to escape and get myself a midnight slot at the Underbelly reciting poetry, but it was harder than I thought. Bulletproof glass is also, apparently, panda-proof, and the tunnel of love only leads to Yang Guang’s quarters, which is the last place I’d want to put on a one-woman show.

Even the scarlet ibis, who managed to escape for almost a whole week (all that stuff about wanting to get to the seaside was nonsense, she was seeing a seagull in Cramond and paid the squirrel to chew through the netting), got caught. Served her right for hanging around at the coast. She should have headed for the Scottish Parliament instead – there are so many red faces round there, she would have fitted right in.

Anyway, it looks like I’ll have to wait for next year to get my one panda show on at the Festival. In the meantime, I’m considering getting involved in politics. I’m wondering if I can’t have a word with that nice Mr Salmond about this onequestion deal. Surely if 16-year-olds are going to be able to vote, pandas should be able to as well?

That, I could just about bear.