She dances with a flower between her teeth. She rides down the high street in a shopping trolley. She wins pub golf. She shouts Pink lyrics in karaoke. She bangs the table at the school quiz night. She falls but gets up. She loves life.

She is efficient, ruthless, merciless. She finishes to-do lists, clears cupboards, devours novels. She judges others for resting. She drinks coffee by the pint and marches down corridors pretending to be in a legal drama. She buys bottled water and snacks on pretzels and macarons. She reads feminist essays and recipe books. She consumes thought-provoking documentaries and entire box sets. Days are long but she is untouchable, propelled by alcoholic, caffeinated energy.

She makes pancakes, cupcakes, biscuits, more pancakes. She attacks Joe Wicks burpees, rises early with her dumbbells. She counts steps, buys tracksuits, impresses with her press ups. She curates playlists, alphabetises books, devises timetables and fills the house with exuberant crafts. She recites Bear Hunt, strews teddies and dresses dollies. She sings all the verses of the Wheels on the Bus.

She vomits. She soils the bed. She loses a breast, her hair, her nails. She coughs until it hurts. She tries and fails to climb the stairs. She cries. She complains. She shouts.

She heals. She gets up. She does the school run. She takes all the tablets. All she wants to do is sleep. She wants to rebuild her life but she doesn’t know how.

She writes.