Couple number nine. Vivian smiled at them as they walked up the cobbled path. They looked young enough, late twenties, early thirties perhaps. Something and Something Jackson. Mr Jackson pointed at the magnolia which took up most of the front yard. It was majestic, leafless branches weighed down with fat pink blossoms. A fairytale tree, someone had said. Couple number six, Vivian thought.

This is it you son of a bitch, your first walk to the ring as a professional cage fighter. I bet Gretchen’s chin is on the floor right now. When my walkout song starts playing, I might pull my hair out. This is why you trained for twenty years. Kids in school thought you were a loser for doing Jiu Jitsu instead of playing football. Yeah, well how does my Louis Vuitton cape look in HD? Listen to that rowdy packed house. They’re not ready for my song. It’s too perfect.

John woke up with a grenade in his hand.

This is how I remember the fateful concatenation of events which led to my present state.

I’d gone to the flower shop to buy some flowers for my mother for her birthday, her birthday having been the day before. And even though her birthday was the day before, I thought she would still enjoy the flowers, anyway.

Dear Mother-in-law,

How many times can you hoover your flat? Turns out, I can do it every single day. I see my dark hair on the beige carpet and it fills me with anxiety. Hair, anywhere other than on my head has always been a source of revulsion. Now that I’m married to an English man, who is perhaps more used to spotting light hair on the floor, the couch or the carpet, I have to be extra careful.