IT TURNS out you can be both pregnant and an award-winning journalist and you'll still be expected to make your own cups of tea.

I've tried my hardest to be a diva this weekend but nobody will bloomin' well let me.

"I'd like a brew," I informed Smithy, on Friday night. "Did I mention I am a) carrying your child and b) as of last night, an award-winner? I don't see why I should have to make my own."

He laughed.

"Well you know where everything's kept. You'll need to nip to the Spar for more milk though."

I pouted, a la Victoria Beckham.

"Do Posh or Kim Kardashian ever have to 'nip' to Spar?" I asked, hands on hips. "Do you ever see Mariah Carey jumping into her Yaris on a Friday night 'cos she's off out to pick up a pint of semi-skimmed?"

Smithy looked blankly at me.

"Who's Kim Karpashington? Anyway, if you get the milk, you can pick up a takeaway at the same time."

Sadly, it was a similar story everywhere I went.

A colleague jumped in the lift with me on Friday morning and I told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was not welcome.

"You must be mistaking me for someone else," I said to her. "I don't share the lift with commoners."

She laughed. And stayed where she was.

I also tried it on my dad (I fancied a piece of toast), but he informed me, through a mouthful of Bombay mix, that he wasn't 'running a bloody hotel'.

Apparently creating a human from scratch before going on to impress a panel of 'industry experts' is still not enough to elevate me above the masses.

I'm still just Anna Smith, who has to clean her own kitchen.

I don't have a sexy Spaniard called Juan at my beck and call when I need to be fed grapes.

I also don't have anybody willing to bring me bags of Haribo at the click of a finger (of course in true diva style I would request all the cola bottles be removed first).

So back to work it is then.

Unless someone is willing to bring me a cup of tea?

Anyone..?