The only time my two careers (if I can call either a career) have ever clashed was when I accidentally handed my boss my latest list of political puns instead of the latest health-related news round-up. She finally caught on when she realized ‘There will be hell toupee’ wasn’t a real headline.

‘Career’ all seen to, I turn my attention to my social calendar.

I unmatch the cheery Tom from last night. I book my place at yoga for next week, I organize address labels for the numerous clothes I need to return (only getting momentarily distracted by some shoes that I send to Mia – they’re far too expensive for me), and order food for the upcoming Games Night.

Games Night, which rather confusingly can take place at any time of day, is a tradition that started at university. It’s actually how Peter and I met – at the first meeting of the Board Games Society, whose tagline was ‘Don’t Get Board, Be A Player’. I still remember the first time I met him; he made such a big impression, even outside of the weird clothes. He was charming and funny and just the right side of competitive. He was one of the only people I could be myself around from the start. He still is. Unfortunately the society lost its funding after the first year, but a group of us kept it going on a casual basis. Our meet-ups have dwindled from weekly to monthly to quarterly, and attendees are always in flux, especially since some members have been procreating (hence the move from night-time to any time that coincides with nap time), but everyone is keen to keep it going. Every time we meet up we always have fun, even if we also only need to see each other a couple of times per year.

And every time we meet up, we always have a theme.

The next Games Night, which is to be held during the day on a Saturday, is in February, and so obviously I’m theming it around National Tortilla Chip Day. It’s my turn to host, but because I live in a one-bedroom apartment too far away for the majority of people to visit, I hope to use Peter’s flat instead. It’s the obvious choice, and we’ve hosted together before.

When I asked Peter if I could use his place, his reply – ‘Of course. My only request is the layered dip’ – came in far more quickly than I expected.

I jump at the soft knock on the bathroom door.

‘Bea, it’s me.’ Recognizing the voice of Penny, my work wife, I get up and slowly unlock the door.

She peeks in.

Penny quickly became my work wife out of necessity; I had snuck out of the office to buy some more animal-print clothing, only to come back and realize I’d missed the beginning of the monthly staff meeting – a staff meeting I was meant to be taking minutes in. Without batting an eyelid, she covered for me and ended up taking the minutes. Her cover story was far better than anything I would have made up, and since that time we have been like two pendulums, swinging back and forth between who owes who the next coffee, who owes who the next cover story, and who owes who the next weird and overly friendly insight into their life.