I don’t point out that I rarely go to parties these days, showbiz or otherwise – or that last night was a leaving do for someone fired by the station, let alone what’s going on with my contract. My mother already worries about the stability of me working in television. Of course, she’s pleased to say I have my own show – that’s something she lauds cheerily on about whenever serving customers at the charity shop, or having tea after church (my parents aren’t particularly religious; my mother goes alone for the social connection) and to all her friends at every conceivable opportunity. But I’m not sure my parents regard me being on the telly as having a real job. Sometimes, my mother asks when I’m going back to the bistro. As if I’m on some sort of extended field trip at SC6. She may have a point.

I check my watch. 9 a.m. It feels hideously earlier.

I don’t remember him leaving, but Jordan must have headed off to his office in Farringdon some time ago.

I don’t have to go in to work today. Whatever comes next, Gracie Porter’s Gourmet Get-Together is finished, no more episodes to record. A fact I took into consideration before I obliterated my liver last night because, despite my mother’s lofty aspersions, I’m not so rock ’n’ roll as to recklessly go out boozing on a school night otherwise.

My mother starts on about how the council is making it difficult for the charity shop to host so much as a simple bake sale. Letting her ramble, my head slips back onto the pillow. I recall the events last night that led me to this sorry state.