The whole flat is freezing, gripped tight in a chill that surpasses skin and goes straight to the bone. I feel white and brittle. Why do I still find it so hard to make a decent start on this - my new life? Why do I insist that I cannot writer, cannot even pick an address out of the book and send them a prebound manuscript - a simple synopsis, CV or letter?

Instead I spend money I do not have on food I do not want, watch TV I’ve already seen, and not respond to texts and phone calls from a man I gave my number to but already don’t want to meet.

It’s my second day in my new diary - still on the first page, and I’ve already noticed I started the book, this new life, back to front.

I’m doing everything the wrong way round.