I finish a redraft earlier than expected and don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve already cancelled two weekend plans in anticipation of the last-minute rush of a Monday deadline and now have all this space opening up ahead of me. Happily, two more offers roll in. I can’t remember a time when I was this much in demand.

We go to the pub in the afternoon and talk about toilets for a good forty minutes. This is decadence. This is what time off feels like. We all agree that in a casualised workforce there are few things as satisfying as pooing on the clock. I say that I really miss that about being freelance. The only person’s time I’m wasting is my own.

This week I dreamt that I still had six months left of school and in the dream I was devastated that I had to sit in lessons and take exams, when all I wanted to do was write. Then I woke up and realised that I’m not in school. I’m in my thirties. And a writer.

Then I stayed home all day and watched TV.

Perhaps that’s a millennial parable. Or artistic self-flagellation. Or a warning.

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