Fuck. I’m the 31-year-old who will clock in early to sleep whilst friends party in the early hours of the next day but dresses her best to run errands. Fuck. I’m the dietary abstinent who gets dressed in the early morning to cheat when she is all alone, sitting in the empty garden house, midday Saturday afternoon at the Graduate Hotel, laughing at punters and children flirting with swans. I get off to cheat with a cognac cold brew cocktail dashed with orange & honey, a duck liver pâté spread on chicory, finishing off with chocolate ice cream lathered in olive oil and sea salt. I eat and read about the Eastern and Western Christian Schism. I delight in the achievement of finally completing the goal of becoming an Introvert. And think to oneself: Fuck. I’m happy. How could this not be good?