The worst thing about landing a brand new job, even one as shiny as this, is that you actually have to get up and go to it. Finding out that you have it, telling everyone you know about it and planning what you will buy when you get paid—well, that’s better than most drugs. But the reality of waking up when it’s dark, finding clean tights, clean knickers, standing in the shower that’s never quite strong enough or quite hot enough, banging Emma’s almost empty Original Source bottle against the sink…the novelty has worn off before my eyes are fully open. I’m still stumbling in the soft, nebulous space between my getting-the-job fantasy and the doing-the-job reality. When I started dreaming about working for the mystery website, I had a vision of what I’d wear, and by that, I mean who I’d become. The confident, capable woman I hoped I might magically be able to transform myself into the moment I was making regular National Insurance contributions. Now, the thought of choosing actual clothes makes me feel tender and defenceless—if I want confident and capable, I’m going to have to roll my body up into my duvet, and leave my head sticking out of the top.

From deep inside my brain, I hear the voice of a thousand Women’s Magazines Past, a swelling, harmonic choir. ‘Before a big day, always put your outfit together the night before. It’s one less thing to do in the mo-oooor-ninng!’ Oh, fuck off. It’s not as if I’ve never dressed myself. Still, this feels like I’m failing to answer the £100 question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. In another reality, someone is screaming at me through a screen while I think stupid thoughts like ‘Mum’s old Dorothy Perkins skirt suit with the button from the jacket missing! A pair of workout leggings with a fluorescent yellow polo neck! A straw hat!’ Eventually I go for the tried and tested—a sober, sedate, neutral frock and boot combo. (About a year ago, I got three weeks of lucrative temping work and I only really had two outfits that were up to office scrutiny. Now almost all of my smart clothes are second-hand midi dresses, chosen to allow me to sit behind a reception desk without alarming anyone.)