Chapters (84)
- Chapter one
- Chapter two
- Chapter three
- Chapter four
- Chapter five
- Chapter six
- Chapter seven
- Chapter eight
- Chapter nine
- Chapter ten
- Chapter eleven
- Chapter twelve
- Chapter thirteen
- Chapter fourteen
- Chapter fifteen
- Chapter sixteen
- Chapter seventeen
- Chapter eighteen
- Chapter nineteen
- Chapter twenty
- Chapter twenty-one
- Chapter twenty-two
- Chapter twenty-three
- Chapter twenty-four
- Chapter twenty-five
- Chapter twenty-six
- Chapter twenty-seven
- Chapter twenty-eight
- Chapter twenty-nine
- Chapter thirty
- Chapter thirty-one
- Chapter thirty-two
- Chapter thirty-three
- Chapter thirty-four
- Chapter thirty-five
- Chapter thirty-six
- Chapter thirty-seven
- Chapter thirty-eight
- Chapter thirty-nine
- Chapter forty
- Chapter forty-one
- Chapter forty-two
- Chapter forty-three
- Chapter forty-four
- Chapter forty-five
- Chapter forty-six
- Chapter forty-seven
- Chapter forty-eight
- Chapter forty-nine
- Chapter fifty
- Chapter fifty-one
- Chapter fifty-two
- Chapter fifty-three
- Chapter fifty-four
- Chapter fifty-five
- Chapter fifty-six
- Chapter fifty-seven
- Chapter fifty-eight
- Chapter fifty-nine
- Chapter sixty
- Chapter sixty-one
- Chapter sixty-two
- Chapter sixty-three
- Chapter sixty-four
- Chapter sixty-five
- Chapter sixty-six
- Chapter sixty-seven
- Chapter sixty-eight
- Chapter sixty-nine
- Chapter seventy
- Chapter seventy-one
- Chapter seventy-two
- Chapter seventy-three
- Chapter seventy-four
- Chapter seventy-five
- Chapter seventy-six
- Chapter seventy-seven
- Chapter seventy-eight
- Chapter seventy-nine
- Chapter eighty
- Chapter eighty-one
- Chapter eighty-two
- Chapter eighty-three
- Chapter eighty-four
Boiled eggs and toast strips are supposed to be comfort food, but somehow it’s just not happening. I bash in the top of Jake’s abandoned eggs with the back of my spoon, using rather more force than is necessary, and stare at their rubbery white skins and dried-up yolks without enthusiasm and with a stomach that’s decided eating isn’t on the agenda. The toast has gone all floppy and wouldn’t even make a dent on them anyway—you can draw your own metaphorical conclusions on that one.
Jake is in advertising. I don’t really know what he does other than wear sharp suits and make up slogans. His latest project is to convince a sceptical general public that eggs are good for you again. Now they’re no longer stuffed full of salmonella and they’re a safe and wholesome foodstuff once again. So Jake says. One of the very few benefits of this is that we’ve been getting free eggs. But it’s not the type of egg donation that’s any use to me.
Work for me is as an assistant editor at Global Magazine Publishing—a bit of a misnomer because none of our magazines ever venture out of the British Isles. This sounds very glamorous to people until I say that our main magazines are called My Baby and My Divorce. I can never decide whether these are extremely dull titles or marketing masterpieces. Certainly the circulation is steadily climbing—well, of My Divorce anyway.
After an uneventful schooling, I thought very seriously about becoming a teacher with a view to watching my eager charges blossom under my tender tutelage in the manner of Miss Jean Brodie. But after one terrifying work-experience stint at a North London comprehensive, I decided that it was far too hideous and desperately underpaid. And that even the formidable Ms Brodie would have cracked under the strain of trying to control a room full of shaven-headed, pierced twelve-year-olds. So, instead, I joined the world of publishing, which, several years later, I still now inhabit—marginally less hideous, but still desperately underpaid. Plus all the shaven-headed and pierced people are over thirty.