She took off her trousers, which despite being elastic had sat so tightly on her waist that they had left a deep mark. Then she took off her tunic, which wasn’t too tight but concealed a bodysuit that at best redistributed the rolls of fat. It fit so tightly that she could barely take a deep breath, so it came off too. Then she put on her tracksuit bottoms and a gigantic t-shirt which she felt free in. She did all of this in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom without casting so much as a glance at her reflection. She rarely did.

Then she collapsed on the sofa in front of the TV—she was too tired even to make tea. She channel hopped to a program about people with a limited survival instinct—they had gambled everything away or bought fizzy drinks and fags with all their savings and then some—until the ad break began. She zapped around other channels where there were ad breaks too and eventually ended up on a fairly decent documentary about Japanese fetishes on one of the channels. She fired off a few text messages to a couple of friends, but both seemed to be otherwise occupied, so she didn’t get any replies. Whenever this happened, it always made her think that they probably spent time with her sporadically out of decency, and that none of them took any pleasure from spending time with her.

At work, she had the respect of colleagues and a responsible role for which she had qualified through expertise and hard work. Despite her shy image, there was no one there who questioned her. But as soon as she was no longer hiding behind her professional role, her self-confidence came tumbling down. Socially, she was a total zero. These kinds of thoughts pull me down, she thought to herself. Don’t send messages if you’re afraid of not hearing back. Dump the bedroom mirror if it makes you unhappy. Wear clothes you can breathe and move in. Go out on the town and get hammered. Get a hobby and meet new people. Build ships in bottles or paint watercolours, take tennis lessons, learn to tango or speak German. Don’t just sit here being depressed—do something useful with your spare time.

Her mobile rang, and she was reminded that she was in any case doing something useful, even if it was beginning to dawn on her that she mostly did it for her own sake so that she had someone to talk to in the evenings.

It was Kerstin, and Sandra felt herself getting psyched up, as was so often the case—but unfortunately only then—when something in her life required an extraordinary input from her.

“Are you well?” she asked, an uncontroversial opening to their conversation.

“Hmm, well, things are the same as usual.”

“Has the sore throat sorted itself out?”

“More or less. Do you have children?”

It might not have been such an unusual question, but the way it was asked—completely out of context—was surprising.