- I assume I am rocking a boho fresh-faced look. You know, Sienna Miller in the early 2000s – sexy bed hair, a swipe of chapstick, a dash of highlighter on my prominent cheekbones – and then I catch sight of myself. Hair is semi-matted from gym sweat (and roots need doing AGAIN, FFS), which is neither sexy nor bed-like. Face is basically bare of make-up, apart from the sheen of hormonal anxiety.
- I assume I am going to get eight hours sleep… because I am delusional/high/having an out of body experience/drunk/so dangerously in denial that I should be sectioned/I once met someone who had eight hours sleep and we had similar taste in trainers/am experiencing an alien takeover in my body/forgot who I was for ten seconds.
- I assume I sound authoritative, but actually I sound shrill and insecure. And then angry and confused. Why is everyone staring at me? Perhaps some SHOUTING WILL HELP? OK, it didn’t help.
- I assume eating the bread in a restaurant will have no effect on me until I then wrestle myself into my jeans the next day feeling like I’m in some kind of torturous clamping device used during the Tudor reign so that I would confess to writing treasonous verse about the king. An effective reminder that my metabolism effectively stopped and then retired to Florida at the end of the nineties.
- I assume I will find a parking space because surely someone, somewhere has to leave theirs and this city is huge and OK, this is me turning my car around and going home again because there isn’t a parking space, why the f*** did I think there would be a parking space, there is never a f***ing parking space.
- I assume money will just replace itself, which is why I had that enormous shopping spree online ordering important things like Valentino Rockstud shoes (oops) and am now having to eat out of the bin because I’m scared I will never be able to afford food, like, ever again in my whole life.
