So, I leapt out of bed this morning at half past seven and went for a run with the ‘fitlist’, which, I found out, is comprised at that time only of me and a fourth year linguist called George. I almost died, but having just about survived, I think I should maybe go again tomorrow. I keep thinking of Eddie Izzard and his poor feet. Yoga with Alice is uneventful, only I am constantly, for an hour and a half, terrified that the balding, rather strange instructor will walk past and touch me in a correcting sort of fashion whilst I am balanced precariously with my bottom waving in the air and my leg muscles trembling, and I will scream and collapse onto my mat, and everyone will laugh. It hasn’t happened yet.

At quarter to nine it began to rain onto one half of the court. The other half was still sunny. A leant from my window into the rainy half and watched J, diagonally across the court from me, walking about his room half-naked. ‘He is definitely doing up his trousers now’, she said, breathlessly. (And now he is running somewhere. Oooh, where? Maybe he jogs in jeans.)

At three minutes past nine, that has been the sum of my day, nearly dying and strange rain and a half naked J. It will not get much more exciting than that. On the list of may possibly happen is: the boy does not text back to let me know he has leapt out of bed, so I will have to go round there and open his curtains and then spend twenty minutes apologising for having done so. Or perhaps he will be waiting silently and glumly, staring at his macbook and being morning miserable, and I will have to jump on him. I will watch the ducklings for half an hour and be late for my supervision. I will tell my supervisor that I do not find his sarcasm helpful. I will order a tesco delivery. I will decide to stop stealing milk. I will crawl back into bed.

On the list of will definitely happen (he is running back now): work. Work. Work. Work. Tea break. Work. Work. Cake break. Work. Stare at ducks for half an hour. Work. Listen to the rest of The Tempest in bed. Throw something at the wall hoping it may break through and hit the boy next door who blows his nose like a foghorn. Sleep.

Perhaps this is too optimistic.

My family has remembered I exist. My father rings me to tell me he has not forgotten me, and that he is going to see at Keele Students’ Union (three guesses) The Fall, and I am jealous. My mother tells me she is taking up drawing pictures of naked people with charcoal, under the guise of ‘life drawing’. Her new gay friend is moving to Ipswich, and she is mourning.