nice young men who sell antiques

Saturday: I have chores to do. I really must do something with the wardrobe monstrosity if I'm ever to sleep in my own bedroom again, and those Christmas cards aren't making themselves.

I'm standing on the Northern Line, on the way to meet Little Friend Susan for a coffee. Everyone looks fascinating, probably because I'm wearing my headphones and can't hear what they're saying. I'm also suffering a terrible urge to look people in the eye and smile. I am waiting for this to get me into trouble.

Two dead people get onto the train. They have faces of furry wet clay, lips closed and dry, eyes pale and blank. Their skin tone has been painted on in blotches of white, pink, yellow. He is hooded in grey, her hair is scraped back from her face; her only definition two smudged rings around her eyes. They stand wordlessly lowering the temperature of the carriage. Two stops later they rush off and we all drop our shoulders again.

I meet LFS and we go to Exmouth Market, where I eat a lamington almost the size of my head. Two hours later I am sitting drunk and giggling in her plastic-shrouded loft, my timetable comprehensively derailed. When I am finally released she and her husband wrap me in spare jumpers and push me back out into the early evening to wobble home in my bubble.