‘According to papers today, Millennial women are suffering from the paradox of choice. They have a multitude of options that can problematize decision-making! Too much choice! Tweet us – do you feel like having too many options is holding you back?’

I turn the radio off. What an annoyingly chirpy voice.

I have the Sunday blues, but I also feel glad that I have an office to go to tomorrow after a depressingly quiet weekend. I posted some old photos of me sitting in the park on Instagram so that people might think I was busy. In reality, I’m not quite ready for human contact. I’m also ninety-five per cent full of booze and chocolate orange and didn’t move all weekend except for occasionally putting a cold glass of gin to my lips. I am bigger since the break-up – I feel like a woman made of Play-Doh but it feels strangely comforting. I can grab hold of parts of myself I never could before. My body has changed and morphed, and now I’m my very own teddy bear. My skin is blotchier than usual too. I’m needing half a bottle of something to sleep each night. But I think I’ve gone through the worst of it. At first I spent many days festering in bed in my own juices, distracting myself by watching Netflix documentaries about climate change, serial killers, and how the world is totally fucked beyond repair, and surprise, surprise, it didn’t really help. Then I tried reaching for some positivity: old movies, reading my favourite erotica books, and watching old episodes of MTV Cribs on YouTube. I even forced myself to get a haircut, to try and make myself feel better, and the new hairdresser guy gave me a head massage at the sinks that felt so good I burst into tears. Because the only intimacy I can get at the moment is a hairdresser touching my scalp. I messaged the girls about inane things on WhatsApp – I haven’t told them about the break-up yet. Telling them would make it real, and I want to talk it through with them in person. But everyone seems a bit preoccupied; no one really replies on the WhatsApp group beyond a few quick emojis these days anyway.

Bea always says to ‘give yourself a wallowing deadline’ whenever you feel down, meaning that you should wallow intensely, feel it all properly and then decide when to stop. My deadline is up. It’s been long enough now. I have to face life again, whatever that means. I start with having a clear-out. My flat is not dirty, but it is certainly messy – there is stuff everywhere. I have ornaments and vases covering every surface, faux plants hanging off every shelf; there is a fruitless fruit bowl full of receipts, bills and paper clips. I have a pile of books gathering dust next to the TV and torn-out recipe clippings from old magazines stacked up on the end of my kitchen counter that I am not planning to read again. I grab two blue Ikea bags and start loading them up with books, old jumpers, pieces of painted crockery and vases that I no longer need. Giving away things to a charity shop every now and again always makes me feel better, like I’m in control of what I let in and out of my life. I call up the shop at the end of my road, owned by a lady called Mrs Farnham who does next-day charity collections. It rings a couple of times.