That didn’t sound right. A frown appeared on Sophie’s face.

‘What do you mean? What about your proper job?’

‘I’ve handed in my notice.’ Being made redundant seemed more impressive when phrased like that. ‘Final day is Friday 18th May. That’s also a recycling day.’

‘But what about money? How are you going to afford to live? And what about Dylan?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not trying to get out of the monthly payments, are you?’

‘Of course not. I shall make money from my writing.’

The frown had reappeared. ‘What kind of writing, exactly?’

‘Poetry.’

I ignored her right eyebrow, which she seemed to have lifted up involuntarily. But it was harder to ignore her sigh nor the front door which closed on my face. I headed off, glancing back up at the house as I closed the garden gate, the sound of ‘Hip to be Square’ by Huey Lewis and the News escaping from an upstairs window and floating off down the street.

Sunday April 29th

Who is this stranger who now greets me in the mirror each morning upon waking? This man whose fine, chiselled jawline has disappeared beneath a startling hairy outcrop of brown and grey? This woolly-chinned wonder? This shaggy magnet for passionate pogonophiles?

Richard Stilgoe, that’s who. According to Mrs McNulty, that is.

‘You look like that fella with the beard who used to be in dictionary corner,’ she cackled from over the fence.

Mrs McNulty is a regular viewer of Countdown; she claims that amidst the vowels and consonants there are hidden messages from ‘the other side’. I don’t know whether she means BBC2 or Channel 5.

Richard Stilgoe is not the look to which I had been aspiring. It’s hard to imagine the ghost of Heathcliff walking the wild moors late at night and serenading Catherine by belting out the hits from Starlight Express.

Monday April 30th

Put Me In Your Box, Honey

Stroking the smooth contours of my newly shaved chin, I messaged Liz with the news that I was being made redundant. She told me I’d be better off without all that nonsense: having worked for a large multi-national organisation herself, she still bears the corporate scars. The thought of company portals, senior management briefings, restructurings and org charts still makes her shudder, she told me, hence the move into freelance copy-editing.

I learnt all this while cyber-slacking with her for much of the day, in between ram raids on the stationery cupboard (from which I took flight with inordinate amounts of Post-it notes and paper clips) and sabotaging the photocopier by feeding sheets of labels into it all askew.

I’ve practically gone feral. These are the last days of Rome!

May

Tuesday May 1st

Fifty Shades of Red

Semi-colons I shall abuse for you.

Parentheses I shall lose for you.

Correct me like you know you want to.

Repossess my nouns.

Cover me with red ink.

Slap my words around.