In my narrow kitchen everything is hidden in white cupboards, except a Chinese-white porcelain bowl of oranges, pears, apples and grapes. And when they go mouldy, brown or bruise, what is it? Pure modern art, man. The whole flat is a gallery and I am but a walking sculpture inside it. A solitary sculpture, yet to find its perfect match. And she’d have to look good lounging on my sofa. No one ever does – they just mess it up. Sometimes, months later, I’ll find evidence underneath the sofa or down in between the seat cushions, such as a thread of hair, split at the end – strawberry blonde at the bottom and chestnut at the top, or a thick straightened brown one going frizzy at the root, or just a tiny black curl in my palm, like a perfect circle drawn with ink. When they leave, I have to open the windows, straighten out the room and light candles.

The Paragon: ‘A model of supreme excellence, it was completed in 1807. The year that Blackheath achieved the status of a fashionable and elegant place to live. Replete with every convenience for use, comfort and elegance. A place to attract well-to-do professional and middle-class families who want to enjoy the air of the heath.’ So I’ve arrived, living in the upper echelons of this crescent of houses with its own secluded road.

I start to clean, wiping all the surfaces with a wet cloth, washing the windows on the inside; then I lean dangerously out on the ledge and clean the outside too. I polish the TV and sound system, and run a duster over the CD rack, all stacked away in a cupboard. I hoover the floor, before getting down on my hands and knees to give it a good sloshing with some hot soapy water and bleach. Next, the kitchen, the bathroom and my bedroom at the back with its semicircular window, just large enough for a double bed and a built-in wardrobe (all white).

When I’m done, my flat might not look much different but it certainly feels it. I draw a bath and soak in lavender oil, get up, drain it out and check to see if I’ve left a rim of scum behind. I like to see evidence that my dirt has gone. If not, I scratch off all the dead skin with a loofah, shower and then shampoo my hair until it squeaks. Finally, I put on my white cotton pyjamas, place all the clothes I’ve worn to my father’s house in the washing machine, hose down the soles of my pissy shoes and begin to cook. Well, I heat up something in the microwave, something ready-made from the supermarket, a cheesy tuna pasta today, and I make a lemon, garlic, mustard, honey, herb and oil dressing for a green leaf salad.