‘Well, are you perfect? I bet you wear leather.’

‘I don’t wear leather, I’m a vegan.’

‘I bet you secretly eat bacon sandwiches when you’re hungover.’

‘I don’t, actually.’

Jesus, what is happening? I’m just trying to drink my coffee and have a cig before I go to work. Life’s hard enough without a vegan campaigner banging on and on.

He continues: ‘Please take this leaflet and read more about it and please consider your life choices.’ He wanders off, to go and find someone else who’s doing life totally wrong.

‘Maybe I will, maybe I won’t!’ I call after him, ripping up the leaflet.

This is living in London. No rest for the wicked. No physical boundaries. Constant interruptions. Everyone is so on, on, on. Everything is up for debate and you are always in someone’s way. Having said that, I might moan about London, but I also couldn’t live anywhere else, ever. Growing up in the countryside in Somerset was idyllic in many ways, especially as I met Bea, Cec and Isla at school, but I also found it incredibly boring. Zeta, Mum and I would cook every night together, eating dinner in our small conservatory overlooking the garden, and knew all of our next-door neighbours and their business maybe too well. The air was fresh, and the days were quiet. But, for me, the countryside seems like somewhere you go to disappear and die. Fast-paced city life is in my blood.

A young girl with a long green tartan coat and reddish curly hair walks slowly past me, then turns on her heel, pauses and then comes up close.

‘So sorry to bother you, but are you Olive Stone?’ she asks, half whispering.

‘Yep, that’s me.’ I take a slurp of my warm coffee, trying not to act totally surprised that I’ve been recognized. This never happens.

‘Sorry, I just wanted to say, your recent piece in the .dot, was … amazing. Really fascinating.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ It feels sad to admit, maybe, but this has really puffed me up. I had written a cover story for .dot magazine called ‘Are Men OK?’, which had just yesterday been further dissected by a journalist at the New York Times. It was a proud moment for me to have my work discussed by other journalists. I had written about the trend of men faking going to work, based on true stories of people’s husbands who had pretended to go to work for a whole year (putting on a suit and everything). They would go and sit in the park or sit in a café all day, while running up huge debts on credit cards to cover up their desperation and deception. Some of their partners hadn’t known until it was too late and it had totally ruined their lives. It was genuinely worrying. I found thirty-five different case studies – even one that was linked to a friend of a friend.

‘Would I be able to email you and send you my CV? If there is ever any work experience?’ Curly Hair Girl asks.