People who spray perfume on themselves on the Tube at rush hour should be executed and thrown into a ditch to be eaten by dogs.

Ugh. Anyway. Work is killing me. They seem to expect miracles, despite the fact that I have been on the job three weeks and have barely any relevant experience. (For instance, the other day my boss asked me to create a ‘document control protocol’ for a new project. So I yelled “Oh my God! Look over there!” and ran away. Who says I’m not resourceful?). It’s funny – when I was a secretary, I always had a secret sense of superiority, like the waiter who’s really an actor waiting for his big break. “I’m too smart to be a secretary,” I thought. Now that I’m not a secretary, I have a secret sense of inferiority, like, “What do you want from me? I’m only a secretary.”

But yeah. I am exhausted. I have stopped taking lunch breaks, and I come home every day wanting to cry and get really drunk, neither of which would be especially productive.

I’m going to stop moaning now. Last weekend SiC and I went to East London and trekked around in the Shoreditch/Brick Lane area, which is becoming trendier by the second. It’s the kind of neighbourhood where you could easily find a limited-edition Gang of Four B-side and a lampshade made of glued-together industrial hazard lights but would have difficulty purchasing a tin of soup. I felt underdressed. On Saturday afternoon.

This weekend we’ve got SiC’s daughter and stepdaughter (did I mention that I’m a stepmother? And a step-stepmother? Don’t worry, I’m never solely entrusted with their care), so we’re going to do lots of exciting London things – you know, all those things that make London such a great place to live but that you never do because hey, you live there, and who can be arsed? Those things. Museums and suchlike. Maybe the London Eye, which SiC maintains is an incredible feat of engineering, and which I maintain is a giant fucking ferris wheel.