I just need to stop torturing myself with the specifics, because they’re not making me feel better, and they’re never going to.

After forty minutes in the bath, I decide it’s no use. If the world’s best bath isn’t making me feel better after this long, it isn’t going to help. Draining my glass hasn’t helped me all that much either but, after the other day, I don’t plan on getting drunk for a long time.

I wrap myself up in one of the big fluffy dressing gowns hanging in the bathroom, and head back upstairs.

I look through my suitcase, which I still haven’t unpacked. I probably won’t unpack it, because I’ll only be packing it again. And when I arrive back home again, I probably won’t unpack it for ages then either. Did you even go on holiday, if you don’t leave your suitcase on your bedroom floor, unpacked, for six months?

Something in my case catches my eye and I feel as if I’ve seen a ghost. It isn’t a ghost though, it’s the white lace lingerie I bought for my wedding night. A figure-hugging, semi-sheer white lace bodysuit. When I tried it on, before I bought it, I felt so good in it, so confident. I was almost as excited to wear it as I was my wedding dress, and now I feel like such an idiot.

Disappointed, having recently spent so much money on white shit that I won’t get to wear, I decide to put it on. Why can’t I just wear sexy underwear? Why do I have to have a man for that?

I shrug off my robe and step into my bodysuit, before looking myself up and down in the bedroom’s full-length mirror.

I look good, right? I mean, I’m nearly thirty-two, so I can’t do much about time. I can’t make my D cups be perkier (not without a bank loan and the help of Ali’s surgeon) and those little stretch marks on my hips are there now, they’re not going anywhere… but I still don’t look bad. I feel great for losing a bit of weight. I feel as if I’m in pretty good shape… so what was wrong with me? Why wasn’t I enough for him? I’m looking myself up and down and, while I can’t see what is so wrong with me, suddenly it’s hard to see what is right. I’m just a normal grown woman. I’m not a cute little thing like Eva. Is that what men really want, a cute little bimbo? Talk about unrealistic body standards for women – am I supposed to have my lower leg bones removed and beat a few of my brain cells out with them?

I plonk myself down on the bed, where my laptop waits expectantly. I still haven’t written a word.

If I can’t write something romantic, maybe I could write something sexy? Sex usually comes before romance anyway, and I do feel sexy in this. Perhaps if I could just get the ball rolling…