We’ll go out in each other’s arms, freebasing – with Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill on repeat

For now, alas, me and this dark hallway must find some way to coexist.

I walk through to the lounge. Sid and Moon are in there, encrusted on the sofa, drinking Sid’s homemade probiotics.

Fuck. I forgot to buy an avocado.

Frances must be in her room. She’s the only one I can really endure for more than five seconds.

Sid has artist’s hands, scabby and ink-covered. She works as a receptionist at a recruitment agency and spends most of her time doodling. Moon works in PR and is rocking neon knitwear and an erupting beehive. They are having a conversation about intestinal flora.

‘There’s a convincing argument that we are composite organisms rather than individuals,’ says Sid. ‘I don’t know which way round I work sometimes – whether my brain leads my stomach or my stomach leads my brain. If it’s the latter, that means I am ruled by billions of bacteria.’

‘I know what you mean,’ says Moon. ‘I’ve often wondered whether I have a personality or whether everything I’ve ever said or done has been a response to eating or not eating bread.’

‘So true,’ says Sid. ‘Sometimes I think the word “gluten” sets off a chain reaction in my body. I think it’s only a matter of time before they ban the word, too. And quite right …’

‘Listen,’ I say, ‘would you guys mind tidying up in here if you get time tonight? Just, you know … the footbath and the bagel slicer.’

They stare at me. ‘I don’t suppose you remembered the avocado?’ says Sid.

I shake my head. ‘I’ll get you one tomorrow.’

‘No avo and calling me “Stephanie” in your column. It’s practically abusive. Lol!’

‘I changed your name out of respect for your privacy.’

‘And then you wrote about our personal habits.’

‘It was for other women to learn from.’

‘What’s to learn? There was no conclusion in the piece. Nothing in it was of any consequence whatsoever.’

‘The conclusion is if you honestly share then you feel less alone.’

Moon snorts into her ginger ale. ‘You said it was twenty years ago. That’s not very honest.’

‘Again, protecting you.’

‘I think talking about your friends’ bodies in public is a pretty garbage thing to do.’

‘It’s an online feminist magazine. And you’re my lodgers.’

‘Well,’ says Sid, ‘that’s put us in our place.’

My cheeks are hot. I turn and walk out of the room.

I am thirty-five, I am thirty-five, I chant as I walk to my room. I pass Frances’s door – the door to what should have been a different room altogether. I can hear her practising her latest one-woman monologue. ‘Call me, Adolf!’ she’s screaming. ‘Call me! CALL ME!’

She gets funding for this shit. It’s all a bit much.