The milk’s turned sour, the cheese has mould, and the leftover bolognaise sauce has fur growing on it. My savings amount to £2.67 in an account I can’t access, the cat has decided her new toilet is behind the sofa, and my mum keeps trying to donate chicken stew and bed sheets despite me being vegetarian and sleeping on the sofa.

My husband walked out on me three years ago. He took the house, the car, and divorced me to live with another man. Mark, my ex, calls him Andrex because he’s soft and strong. I don’t ask about the last bit.

I lost my crappy job as a children’s librarian in an area of town that Hitler would have been nervous of attacking, and Avon’s stopped calling.

The neighbours smile and nod, but no more than that. They’d rather I wasn’t around. I wear four-year-old boots with holes in the toes and my hair’s almost white despite not reaching thirty yet. I groan when I bend over and can no longer prize myself out of a beanbag chair without getting a head-rush.

You could say that my life officially sucks. Well, that’s one theory. But I prefer mine. I have my life. I’m still here. Despite, only a year ago, the morning cocktails, the mid-morning chasers, the lunchtime shots, the half a dozen nightcaps, and everything in between at every possible minute of the day, I’m still here.

You see… that’s life.

Mine.

Copyright © K Wakeman