Sophie Kinsella

Thank God they didn't print special 'Sale' bags

It’s not his fault I’m doing the work of three people and keep dropping all the plates.

How am I supposed to have time to reflect? How can I feel joyful when I’m constantly gripped by panic? How am I supposed to write down my aspirations when my only aspiration is stay on top of life and I’m failing at that?

Do I leave? Change jobs? But, oh God, it takes so much energy to change jobs. You have to read recruitment ads and talk to headhunters and decide on a career strategy. You have to dig out your CV and remember what you’ve achieved and choose outfits for interviews, then somehow secretly fit the interviews into your working day. You have to sound sparkly and dynamic while a scary panel quizzes you. Smile brightly when they keep you waiting for forty minutes, while simultaneously stressing out about how behind you’re getting with your actual job.

I don’t know when cooking became so daunting. It kind of crept up on me. But now I just can’t face it. I cannot face buying some piece of…whatever…food, I guess, from the supermarket. And peeling it or whatever, cutting it up, getting out pans and looking for a recipe and then washing up afterward. Just the thought overwhelms me. How do people do that every night?

As soon as I get inside my flat, I sink down on a chair, still in my coat, and close my eyes. Every night, I arrive back here and feel like I’ve just run a marathon, dragging an elephant behind me. At length I open my eyes and find myself surveying the array of dead plants on the windowsill that I’ve been intending to chuck out for about six months.
I will one day. I really will. Just…not right this second.

The more I’ve stepped away from Zoose, the more I can see how badly run the marketing department is.

Dinah is my friend. My oldest friend. But I haven’t talked to her in what feels like forever. She’s a cheerful, competent lawyer turned doula and I love her to bits, but I guess I’ve been avoiding her. I haven’t had the energy to be “on” and cheerful; nor do I want to dissolve into sobs. I guess this is how people slowly turn into recluses.

“ ‘Why are you worrying about the sea?’ ” I do my own imitation of Terry. “ ‘The sea sure as hell isn’t worrying about you.’ ”

But my brain has gone on strike; I can’t cope with anything new. Instead, after I’ve finished eating my wrap, I turn on my TV, scroll down my planner, call up Legally Blonde, and press play movie again for maybe the hundredth time.