The moon is luminous through the frames of the gas works tonight, and out on the roof it is almost still warm enough to sit. I wonder how many years it will be before I stop associating being ill with comfort, with day-long company, jaffa cakes and afternoon repeats of Midsomer Murders - and begin to remember that these days it is actually loneliness, and boredom, and a lack of decent meals. Anyway, I am returning to work tomorrow even if I do still look (and feel) like last night's leftover pizza. The new boss starts, and I'm meant to be seeing my ex, and if I have to spend another day in this flat on my own I will probably have to tidy up, which is just one step too far.

For a tiny flat it can get remarkably messy. I don't know where all these things come from (sometimes, disconcertingly in the case of items of clothing, neither does Natasha), nor can I work out where things go to. I have spent the day feeling its smallness, and now, suddenly, when I unlock the back door and put down the key, or try to make up my stripped bed, it is an infinity of little places. Seriously though, it is not cool to lose the only bedlinen that wasn't put in the wash today. How far can a satin pillowcase really go on its own?!

I need to get out more. I'm blogging about pillowcases. One pillowcase.