You grow your own herbs in a window box and you think swatting flies is cruel. However, you also have a ruthless streak, particularly when it comes to men. You are quite happy to issue sexual instructions if you think it’s not being done properly and you only use maps when you’re driving, never Sat Nav.
Poached eggs: you always make your bed. Scrambled eggs: you are hungover for 45% of the time. Boiled eggs: your house has a lot of your parents’ furniture in it and most people still call you by your childhood nickname. Fried eggs: you can’t cook and you don’t own an iron.
You love the radio, particularly things like The Archers and Meet David Sedaris. You used to wear glasses with clear glass in them, like Mel B, just because you felt they made you look a bit edgy and you don’t read newspapers, only The Week.
You are always late for work and you quite often post on Facebook under the table during meetings. You don’t believe in half measures – if anyone even used the word ‘margarine’ in front of you, you’d push them under the nearest car. You like late nights, disastrous affairs with highly unsuitable lovers and you’re very good at making a fuss of people on their birthdays.
You are extremely placid in temperament and lots of people are in love with you. You very rarely post on Social Media, but you often write affectionate messages under other people’s. You don’t know what things like agave syrup or ghee are and you have never not slept through the night.
God, you hate grapefruit. “I love grapefruit!” you tell people, though. “It’s so fresh!” No, you don’t, you hate its sourness and all that white pithy stuff that’s impossible to chew through, but you tell yourself every morning that it’s good for breaking down fatty deposits. You face the grapefruit every morning, armed with your not-sharp-enough spoon, knowing that the two of your will wrestle and you’ll end up with only small mouthfuls of acerbic wetness that will taste worse when you try and wash it away with water. Think of the thighs, think of the thighs.
You are A LOT of fun when you’re drunk.
You like gentle detective dramas like Miss Marple or Lewis, but you couldn’t handle something like Luther. You quite often have toast for supper too, as your fridge very often only has a half-empty, flat bottle of San Pellegrino in it, an ancient jar of anchovies and some withered spring onions in it. Toast for breakfast is only to help fill you up so you drink less coffee.