Working girls

Typical day: my alarm goes off, I creep out of bed, and draw the curtains, hoping the natural light wakes The Boss. It doesn't. I have a shower and think it might wake The Boss. It doesn't. I come out and bang my stuff around to wake up The Boss. She moves not.

Two girls, one bathroom; we could become logistics co-ordinators after this. We struggle down our hill, the lizards scampering into the bushes at the sound of out footfall. The male hotel staff flirt - well, we think it's flirty - and the females glare. Breakfast is essential it could be our only meal for the day. Cippolata, five different cheeses, eggs, tomatoes you get the idea...

And then to work, our stomach shifting uneasily as we career across the off ramps, roundabouts and other traffic anomalies of Olbia. We take the back row in the press centre; isn't that where the bad kids sat in school?! It's hot and glary. Our laptops radiate so much heat they burn to touch. We live on tap water and the contents of my hangbag: Sardinian crisps, melted Kinder chocolate and tic tacs.

If we move too much we got hot, if we don't move we get hot. Ear plugs are firmly in place, we listen to live radio feed via the internet, watch GPRS tracking dots and split times and write. And write. The Boss checks my spelling. If things go wrong she runs to get information from the PRs. Or I make random phone calls to people in the service park that I don't even know. Sometimes they're not even the right person.

We do this for eight to ten hours. And then, after all that, we reckon we deserve a little R and R! Here we are at the end of a working day, for once in a state when we can be bothered going out.