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I’m walking down my high street and I allow myself to feel good. I never feel good. I never allow myself to enjoy anything. If something feels good, I worry about it going wrong or the next thing to go wrong. The worst thing I can do is feel optimistic, because that’s akin to arrogance.

But today, I allow myself to feel good.

Everything about this day smells of possibility and chance. A smell of breakfast takes me to a new café I’ve not noticed before.

The newsagent stocks one vagrant copy of the New Yorker seemingly just for me. A girl smiles at me as she gets off the bus. I get a tax rebate. For the exact amount of the cost of a new pair of Nikes I saw on the internet. It’s going my way today. I catch myself in the mirror because once I get back to the flat, despite the autumnal chill outside, I wear a t-shirt and stick the heating on so I can see my tattoo.

I’m doing a book reading later that night at a bar in Shoreditch. We’ve been asked to read our favourite party anecdote, so I’ve prepared something about a night I spent out walking the canals with Aziz where we planned to find freaky sex parties on boats and failed.

I pack up what I need to read and some books to sell. I walk outside. It’s freezing. I am braving the cold so there’s more chance people can see my new ink, so no need to layer up. But it’s freezing. I crave hoodie. I crave thermals. I crave warmth.

I walk down the high street, against the contraflow of returning commuters, victorious in their ability to survive another day at work. I wonder if they’ve achieved the same amount of work as me, except with shielded screens and covert clicking back onto spreadsheets: watched YouTube videos, snacked, clicked through every single social network available; replied to emails as promptly as possible to indicate work efficiency and manage a total concentrated work effort of 55 minutes or so. We all spend our working days looking forward to our next meal.

My phone rings. It’s Rach’s number. I ignore it. She calls again. I let it ring in my pocket. Undeterred, she calls me again. This time, my impulses can’t let a ringing phone go unanswered. Must connect. I answer.

‘Can’t you speak to me now?’ She sounds pissed off for being ignored. The first time I hear her voice in 6 months and she sounds angry with me. Nothing has changed.

‘No, I’m out. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Out, well, that’s good at least.’

‘Glad you approve.’

‘No, I just think that’s a really good thing, you really needed to …’

‘Is that why you called, Rach? To have a go?’

‘No,’ she says. ‘I was just thinking about you. I wanted to check you’re okay. I worry about you. And nobody’s seen you. I worry about you being on your own.’

‘Well, I’m not on my own.’

‘Oh. Good. Who …’

‘Look. I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘I don’t need your worry. I’m a fully functioning adult.’ I hang up the phone.

I have an @-reply on Twitter. It’s from Hayley. It says: ‘See you in a bit. I’m running late. Looking forward to it whisky buddy.’

I tweet her back: ‘Pre-pub-dutch courage. Join me if you can?’