I put the TV on for her while I make her breakfast. I don’t like preparing food, even if it is for my child. I hate a lot of things I am supposed to like – especially when it comes to being a mother, but also just life in general. I don’t like self-help, self-care, the ‘mum scene’ or social media. I hate politics, and the way it divides people. I hate football for the way it brings people together, but still puts them on opposite teams. I hate how a woman with her top off is more likely to sell a packet of mints than a woman with her top on. I hate how the male gaze is still more powerful than a woman’s self-worth.

I hate how the male gaze so rarely comes in my direction. I hate how when it does I bat it away like a bug that might sting me.

I hate so many things. I hate that after my appointment I’ll spend the day making a young girl look thinner and smoother when there was nothing wrong with her in the first place. I hate that my job has become this. I hate that I am part of the problem I am so upset about, but keep doing it because I am too afraid to try anything else.

My daughter calls me from the other room where she is watching TV. She tells me she hates the programme she is watching and wants something else. I change it and tell her she shouldn’t use the word hate. I remind her that she has many more options in her lexicon that she can use to describe how she feels about something, and that she should be more clever with her choice of them.

I hate that I talk to her like that when she is only three and a half.

I call Bonnie into the kitchen for breakfast. She says she isn’t hungry and doesn’t feel well. I put my hand on her forehead; she’s fine. I put Octonauts on and give her a bowl of dry cereal to eat on the sofa while I go and get dressed. I hate that I am not the kind of mother who puts my arms around my child and tells her everything is going to be OK.

My appointment is at eleven. After that, things will feel better.