‘Amish Chic’ became my look. I make most of my own clothes now. Long, gothic velvet gowns. High necks, long sleeves, frills down each breast, a pinched-in waist and long, heavy skirts. I wear black pointy boots with a low heel that lace up the front and finish just above the ankle. My skin is pale, I wear a lick of mascara, some heavy blusher and try to match my lips to my dress whenever I can, usually burgundy. I may or not wear tights, depending on where I’m at in the cycle. But the uniform remains the same. I made a number of thick cotton versions of the dress for the summer months. Pale blue, a floral, but nothing too bold. Vintage Laura Ashley fabrics are my style, I buy them on eBay. The boots remain the same, no matter the dress or weather. I have repulsive feet. If someone wanted to torture me they would abandon me on a packed beach with a bikini and flip-flops on. I’d likely get into the sea and swim as far away from the shore as I could, hoping to one day reach a deserted island, where I would make a thick dress out of sheets of seaweed and hide in caves at the very hint of life on the horizon. I’m not a summer person. It is now June in London and some days are sweltering. If it’s really hot I tend to stay at home as much as I can. One of the reasons I am so locked into my job is that it gives me very little reason to leave the house. I invested in an air conditioning unit last year, which has made the hot summer months much more bearable. Other than getting Bonnie to and from nursery, I have very little reason to go out unless it’s social, which is a rare occurrence in itself, but of course I do have friends. To be fair to myself, I am very consistent and I offer very comforting advice to people when they need it. I’m quite proud of that.

Loading Bonnie into her buggy takes a moderate amount of strength on my part. I have to press her down just below her belly button, so that I can get the straps on her and secure her properly. She is particularly unpleasant this morning. I say her name over and over – ‘Bonnie, get in now. Bonnie. Bonnie, sit down!’ – all the while regretting it. It has never felt natural for me to call her Bonnie. It’s a curse of a name, meaning beautiful. An unfair pressure to put on a young girl. It was Liam’s grandmother’s name, and it meant a lot to him to pass it on. I agreed, but only if she had my surname. Liam didn’t argue with that bit at all. I hate how progressive he was about so many things.