Late for work, I struggled to roller-blade uphill over the cobbles of Edinburgh’s Old Town in pursuit of the overweight female folk singer. The early morning street cleaners were a further obstacle, especially when they took pleasure in “accidentally” spraying my feet with water from their hoses. When I finally reached the office I found myself forced to feign interest in an unknown colleague’s pregnancy testing exploits. Her kit comprised multiple red ribbons soaked in a fish tank of urine. She’d tested positive three times already and everyone was well and truly sick of hearing this.

On a different day I worked with colleagues at the University of Birmingham. I soon realised why they had invited me to collaborate: they didn’t have the first clue about writing grant proposals. I was driven to phone the editor of a professional journal to ask for advice on how to deal with this embarrassment. To add to my woes, someone had stolen the double mattress on which I slept during meetings, and my iPhone had gone missing.

Back home again I was building a fine wardrobe from the cast-offs of my friends. JW had already given me a beautiful blue, soft leather, messenger bag, and now DT was offering me underwear. I chose a black stretch-lace vest top that I had always admired, and three fancy bras: one beige, another shocking pink, and the third scarlet.

.