Laura Slattery: Diary of a despairing, caffeine-dependent hack

January: I emerge unscathed from an end-of-year blaze of journalistic controversy. My two-star review of Elf the Musical has upset one of the McGann acting brothers and someone on Twitter called Pixie Pickle Pants wants to punch me in the face. I steer clear of anyone who looks like they might be called Pixie Pickle Pants.

Complications ensue when RTÉ invites journalists to the studio for the first Claire Byrne Live, which is debating same-sex marriage. Surrounded by an alarming posse of whooping "no" voters, I concentrate hard on my frowning technique when the cameras swing over and Claire asks the person in front for his anti-equality contribution. A friend texts that it looked like I was about to "gob down his neck". Might have overdone it.

February: I read a piece by a Guardian features editor that contains detailed and precise pitching instructions that everyone must follow "unless you are Jon Ronson. Jon Ronson can write anything he damn well wants". This depresses me, as I am not Jon Ronson.

March: At a press conference held by what was then UPC Ireland, I'm introduced to Dave Fanning, who was on my TV a lot when I was a teenager. "The internet has ruined everything," he begins, pastry in hand. I agree wholeheartedly and pour myself a coffee.

During an Independent News & Media briefing in its Talbot Street HQ, I notice the dainty crockery hails from Waterford Wedgwood – it’s possibly the last trace of Sir Anthony O’Reilly remaining at Independent House. “Legacy china,” whispers another hack.

April: A colleague texts me a link to a story about a guy in the US who has just won a Pulitzer Prize for Journalism, but has in fact already left journalism for PR because he needs to pay the rent. We despair.

Television wise, the big new drama in my life is the BBC's Poldark remake, starring Ireland's own Aidan Turner. A behind-the-scenes shot of a topless Turner clutching a scythe in a field inexplicably gains heaps of publicity.

May: I seek counselling as the end of Mad Men nears. I don't see why it can't continue right through the 1970s, Roger Sterling's moustache growing ever more ridiculous. At work, my new desktop wallpaper is an image of Peggy Olson strutting into the McCann offices with dark sunglasses and a cigarette hanging out of the side of her mouth.

June: Dublin City University launches its Institute of Future Media and Journalism on the same day that a huge story breaks. An Australian woman has suffered nerve damage in her legs after helping a friend move house – or “skinny jeans health risk” as every media outlet in the world reported it, complete with a snap of Kate Moss. This is huge.

July: On a quiet Saturday night, a friend texts to say UTV Ireland is showing an episode of Poirot so ancient it has that old-school aspect ratio, with black rectangles to the right and left of the screen. It's from 1992.

August: Solicitors for Denis O’Brien write to satire site Waterford Whispers News asking its editor to remove an article. I note it’s not the one from March headlined: “Denis O’Brien Renews Illuminati Membership”, which appears to be fine.

September: At the launch of TV3's new season in the Aviva Stadium, I pass by a good-looking young man I'm sure I recognise. I worry that a) The Irish Times newsdesk has double-booked and sent one of its new recruits to cover the event and b) it will become obvious that his name eludes me. Luckily, it turns out to be the actor who plays David Hennessy in Red Rock and not a colleague at all.

October: I try to contact the press office for RT (previously known as Russia Today) to confirm it is setting up an operation in Dublin. It crosses my mind that this is basically akin to emailing Putin, but that's okay – I'm feeling confident after seeing off the threat from Pixie Pickle Pants.

November: During a fortnight out of the office, my world is rocked when Channel 4 shifts the time slot for Countdown forward by one hour to 3.10pm, which, to be fair, is where it should be. Meanwhile, Facebook tells me it cares about my memories and reminds me that exactly one year ago, I was quite taken with a thing called the Hipster Business Name Generator. Good times.

December: I return from a coffee run to find someone has (pointedly?) left me a copy of Harold Evans’s advice on avoiding “wasteful words, redundant words and stale expressions” (or flab, redundancies and clichés, as I call them).

The year ends as it began, laced with paranoia.