My head hasn’t properly awoken since I downed two capsules of Night Nurse (across the counter pharmaceuticals? You rebel) after being woken by a drunken phone call from The Musician that became extremely irritating ten seconds in. Then my brother came home from a late shift at the pub and god knows what he was doing in the kitchen, but I doubt Delia ever made that much noise. An unsuccessful night indeed, so now- despite it being deadline day for the magazine, and I should be alert and caffeinated, I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I was meant to see The Musician tonight but he is unable too, so instead (gulp) I am going to the FrostFrench opening in Islington with Lover, who is, of course, no longer my lover so I must remember to behave myself. I’m sure I will, as long as I don’t dwell on the utterly irritating phone call received last night. The phone call: in which I said it would be fine not to meet on Thursday, as I’d be seeing him on Friday when his band play a gig, he replies:

“But I’m just warning you, now we’re in a relationship, you may find the gig’s difficult- I have to talk to lots of different people, which you may find hard so just remember it’s work, not a date”

Well. God lord, what a self-aggrandising git you are. Are you really under the deluded impression that I wish to hang off your ill-supported arm all night? That in fact, I’ve been to these things many a time and always have an enjoyable evening with my friends, no matter whether I speak to you or not. How dare you assume that I need your company to enjoy myself? What a fucking pathetic disaster you are.

What have I gotten myself into?