When you’re in one of those moods. One of those moods which, despite all the positive things happening around you, never fails to convince you that everything is shit. You want to blame it on tiredness, but the mood has other ideas. It takes all those nice things in your life and taints them slightly, so that to observe them results in a sneer instead of a smile.

You and your girlfriend are unintentionally bickering. Whatever either of you say slightly annoys the other, despite favourable intentions. You both are physically and mentally tired, though you’re not athletes and didn’t move off the sofa on Sunday. This irritates you, but goes unspoken.

You check your emails, and have received a group of questions for an item you’re selling on eBay. Your item is obviously drawing attention and looks to sell for a surprisingly large amount, but you answer the questions with a scowl, wondering why the fuck these stupid eBay users don’t already know the answers to these silly questions. No, I won’t post it to fucking Mexico.

Work emails bring no joy. The client doesn’t know any better, and has annotated your crafted creations with a fat red pen. The way your year 7 maths teacher used to do; the one you really hated. The severity of the requested changes is minor, but the red scrawls and arrows touch an exposed nerve, and you close your laptop lid with a patronising sigh.

This room isn’t helping. It’s cold and all but one of the bulbs have blown, and there’s a fucking frog living under the sofa. It’s size is representative of the rest of your dwelling; too small when you moved in two years previously, and that was before you became addicted to second-hand le Carre novels. You are fully aware that earlier today you returned from signing a contract to purchase a large, beautiful house with a basement and decking in the garden, but the mood reminds that you still live here, and will do for a further ten or so days. You work it out as 261 hours.

Q. What do you do?

A. Go into the kitchen and blaze the washing up and cleaning. Relish it, like Spud in Porno. Whilst your bath is running, play side A of Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits. Play it loud, enjoying the crackle and the acoustic guitar. Close your eyes and it sounds like Bob is singing next to you, but to someone else. Once your bath is run lock yourself in the bathroom, have a massive shit (in the toilet), and get in the (bath) water. The bath is very hot, and so deep you can float, as long as you keep enough air in your lungs. When you’re drying you may choose to trim your beard, you may not. Go downstairs and give your loved one a big hug and a kiss when she heads to bed. Eat a caramel rocky with a glass of milk, and play some simple but profound indie pop music. Let your eyes dictate when you should sleep, there’s nothing you really need to be up for.

Everything is fine, stop being a pussy. x