And it's probably only fair I tell you this, and it is probably quite a difficult thing to hear. But I have surrendered life as we know it, to concentrate on my housewifery skills.

On Wednesday I visit my new apartment. I drink Earl Grey and lavish Gin cocktails. I consume two lunches with two different people. I wear a hat. I drink mediocre coffees, at three different establishments. I urinate in a shop doorway. I use contacts to gain VIP. I dine with an old friend. Sell my Apple Macintosh. I re-arrange furniture. I drive 87.2 miles.

On Thursday I lunch with a friend. I drink more coffee. I compose some designs. I say the words 'Looking millionaire'. I enjoy the English summer rain. I wear orange underwear. I eat multipule cream teas. I get caught speeding. I buy a sandwich for £4.56. I sleep in silk sheets. Stop mid-sentence. I drive 80.5 miles.

I intend to return to Bristol, to live the life of a graduate of Finishing school. And I intend to do this well.

On Sunday morning. Late afternoon. I notice a small bruise and several scratch marks under my left pectoral. And inside my head thousands of tiny people are poking pointy sticky into my brain, and it seriously fucking hurts. After several hours of internet, three Spainsh pain killers and four bottles of Perrier, I am able to establish a few events from the previous night.

Apparently, we've been to a local night club. Situated in the midst of a wide network of fishing villages, and so naturally is themed as a pirate ship.

At about half one, whilst supporting myself against the tongue and grove paneled walls of the cramped bathroom, my head clears for a few seconds and I have a sudden realisation of just where I am.

Nothing particularly happens during the night. Although I am told by a over excitable bouncer to "Die outside" whilst sitting at a table. To which I reply, as I recall, "I'm not dying, well maybe perhaps inside".

Under a tiller I have a passing conversation with someone,which is initiated as they exclaim that wearing ___________ is a crime. To which I agree. Defending my choice, by detailing that the shirt is in fact vintage, that this is a small fishing village and I don't own a fishing vessel, and not wanting to stand out opted for, what the locals consider couture.

I leave, perhaps about two thirty, walking the road, which I earlier drove, home.

Sick count: 0 (Although wish it were around 4)

Seated by the lounge window, staring into the mild, late afternoon sun, a view flooding over the fields of maze and wheat. I place a china cup into a china saucer and onto the coffee table, next to the reminisce of two scones which I have just consumed; eaten with half fat creme.

Upon doing so I think of the road that I drove to purchase these items from the store. The road that I have walked many times, on various nights, in various states of mind, the road that I no longer walk, and instead drive.

The green where I used to play, lined with houses, the insides of which were familiar, but are no longer, and the green a safari for another to explore.

The house with the intercom we use to abuse, which now hangs off of the wall. And the house next to it, it's once formal gardens, photographed for magazines, now overgrown, swallowed by disinterest.

And then I pick up another scone, and bring it to my lips. And then I forget the road that I drove to purchase these items. Like many others have.

I awake this morning to find myself alone. A normal occurrence in this residence, especially since my father is extremely footloose due to his retirement. However I am sure that it wont be long before he returns, a week perhaps, at most.

On Wednesday, after running three miles at the gym, I visit three supermarkets in order to purchase Perrier. Two of these establishments only sell San Pellegrino. Which appears to be the favoured carbonated water around here. And the third is sold out. Who would have thought that it was so hard to find?

These disappointments are all that have occurred this week. That and an undisclosed difficult decision of Thursday, which has called for numerous telephone calls, altered many a plan, and still remains unresolved.

According to the elaborate penmanship (of possibly my mother?) in my agenda, I am set to attend a graduation ceremony, commencing at...some unreasonable time tomorrow. Where no doubt, more disappointments will follow.

(Also, hello anonymous commenter. Your comment, as witty and as thought out as it is, has touched me in a way incomparable to any other, a way in which Tim could only wish to).

On Sunday, I am given five pounds by my mother. As I "never ask for anything" although she is quick to inform me that it was supposed to be ten pounds, but my father had spent it. I also find two pounds in an old pair of Levi 501's, and win a further pound on a National lottery, Number 5, scratch card.

In between the, what seems like, endless rain showers, I find myself taking a Sunday drive, to our local store. Where I use the said money to purchase Nestle chocolate, a six pack of Coke and some Roast Beef flavored corn crisps; of an unheard of brand. I am served by Sue, Operator Number 0003, at precisely 15:18:41. A good forty one minutes and fifty nine seconds before the panic shoppers arrive, before the store close at 16:00. Sue implores that I "Enjoy" my afternoon and I drive home.

Several long, drawn out, days reluctantly merge into one another. And although most of the days are empty, filled with only the details of being alive, eating, washing, sleeping. A few minor events unfold amongst them. An interview in an operating theatre, a cruise along the coast line, a film in the picture house, lunch with an old friend.

The relentless fracas of warm rain hitting the slate outside, reminds me of last spring. Many afternoons spent sitting at my faux classical, faux yew desk, aimlessly. And many mornings spent sitting on pool side, watching the flat water ripple, distort, and buckle as swimmers entered.

And its the first time since September that I've felt like this. The wooden floor. The echo of sirens in the streets. Voices inside. A wall of books. A sixty something inch television. Red wine. Stacks of post boxes. Security guards. Window boxes. The alcove in the bathroom where a single candle sits.

From the decked floor of the balcony of this Islington flat I am listening to an argument. Half listening, half staring at the render on the underside of the upper balcony. Irritated by its uneven appearance. And its not the first time since September that I have missed him. And I know this. I also know that I will leave the city, despite this, without seeing him. It has been two years.

A text message. A sip of wine. The man carrying two dinning room chairs. Two forty something year old women. The table in the hallway. A Schindler's lift.