There’s the ongoing battle not to eat an entire wheel of brie for dinner every night when it’s only one euro at the supermarket and so clearly the most economical choice. And when I came across for my interview in August, there were thunderstorms, the hot pavement sizzling with summer rain. Sometimes I swear to god there were seagulls too, I could hear them from my open hotel window. It was eerie.

Real Paris is magic and grime and the unexpected all tangled up together like glittery wool.

But it’s also rude commuters huffing and puffing over my shoulder as I shove my white paper billet in the metal slot and hurry through the gate to wait on the crowded platform. And it’s stairs. So. Many. Fucking. Stairs. There are ninety-six of them leading up to my flat, meaning each trip to the supermarket or chemist requires a thorough cost–benefit analysis.

And last but not least, it’s door codes.

The infuriating, can’t-remember-them-all-because-I’m-not-Rain-Man door codes. Because in Paris, there’s a door code for everything: two at the flat (one for the courtyard, one for the building), one for each yoga school I’ve trialled, one for anyone you visit, and one for work. In order not to go one hundred per cent bats, I’ve devised a system.

Like right now, I’m punching in the code for the downstairs door at work. Do I remember the numbers? Of course not. I’m as bad with numbers as I am with names; I’m a visual creature. But what I can remember easily is the ‘shape’ of the code: diagonals, middle lines, a square, etc. In this case, it’s a big ‘V’ with a ‘C’ for cup at the end. If I were numerically minded that would translate as: 1-3-8-0-C. It’s hard to explain but it works for me.

The door buzzes and I head for the lift. I can hear it rattle as it makes its way down towards me. Inside, the air smells of perfume – some sort of bruised flower – and I stare at my reflection in the mirrored doors as they close. I look tired. Wired. I was up late sending off Camilla’s CV for a job at Vogue she’d be perfect for but would never have the confidence to apply for herself, and writing my article. My final draft landed in Hyacinth’s inbox at around 3 am and by 3.01 I wanted to unsend it. But instead, I brushed my teeth, telling myself things like: You probably nailed it. And maybe I did. Hyacinth’s feedback on my last story was certainly rattling around my head the whole time I typed: Reference other artists! Give the reader something to learn! And so I really worked the Berthe Morisot angle I spoke to Noah about in the alleyway.

Fingers crossed.

The lift doors open. Reception is empty and Claudia is sitting perched on her desk, talking loudly on speakerphone, while everyone around her pretends not to be annoyed. My head thumps, so I keep my eyes down and frown in a way that makes me seem unapproachable as I head to my desk. I drop my handbag on the floor, flop down on my chair and power on my computer.