Jessica: Fern, I have a child to look after with this hangover.

Why are children so loud?

And demanding? And evil?

Please do not tell my former husband I refer to our child as evil. The divorce hasn’t gone through yet.

Fern: I love how you call him your “Former Husband.” Got some Prince-esque vibes.

Jessica: My nemesis, formally known as hubby

Fern: I mean, if you were referring to him as “hubby” I kind of see how it went wrong.

Jessica: Finally, I understand my divorce!

Seriously though, is your hangover really bad???

Fern: I woke up on the sofa with a bin next to me.

I didn’t put the bin there

Jessica: Oh my God

This is hilarious but also terrible.

If you ever recover from your hangover, how do you feel about coming down someday soon? Meeting Bridget? Don’t worry if it’s too much of a mission

Fern: Oh, wow. It would be great to meet her. I’ll look at my diary. I WFH on Fridays so may be able to bunk off one afternoon

Jessica: BRILLIANT. I am free basically every Friday. Can’t wait for you to come down. Xxxx

And, once again, I found myself going to see Jessica, despite my misgivings. Not only that, I was skipping work to see her, answering her siren call. I promised myself I’d work on the train down, and honestly had the best intentions. I’d packed a bag with printouts of five articles that needed proofing, and I’d planned to go through my pitch in-box and figure out the next month of commissions. But, at London Bridge, I got way too distracted by all the things to do and buy, and when my train flickered up on the digital board, I cradled a coffee, a pastry, a vegan sausage roll, Grazia magazine, that day’s Times newspaper, and a new posh notebook and pen. I collapsed onto the mostly empty train, setting out all my wares on the seats around me for the forty-five-minute journey. By the time I’d enjoyed my coffee, and wiped the croissant crumbs off my lap, there were only twenty minutes left. Not enough time to really concentrate so I stared aimlessly out of the window. It was strange, doing this journey to my old hometown after so many years, and I felt nostalgia crash over me as I stared out at this familiar moving view. My phone started ringing, jerking me out of my thoughts, and I saw it was my editor’s number.

Shit.

“Derek? Hi, how are things going?” I said, praying we didn’t go through a tunnel.

“Hi, Fern, I’m good. It’s Friday and all that. All well your end?”

I used my hand to cover the mouthpiece to drown out train noises. “Yeah, just going through my pitch in-box. I’ll send over anything good before the end of the day.”

“And ruin my weekend? Leave it ’til Monday morning, won’t you?”