Amy Gray squanders her cognitive surplus over feminism, pop culture and the lost art of sitting. Then someone breaks the reverie. Two friends, both beloved, admired, missed and overseas, emailed and asked to look at some chapters. My horror at such benign support was instant, curling me into a ball like a small slater at the bottom of the garden, horrified at being discovered. But most of all you hate the current book because you can see ahead to the .

It was one of those Monday mornings when I could not help myself but muse over the apparent lack of sense my life had had up until that point. What was it all leading up to? When I awoke I was surrounded by three people strewn across the floor and armchairs. Not one of them was Mike funnily enough. We had managed to kick him out of his own house! 8220;Well, you must feel well rested.