In a ramen restaurant near Tottenham Court Road, with Bella. 

Nine years before. In a Korean restaurant a few metres away, now long demolished for Crossrail. I don’t remember what we talked about but I remember how I felt.

This has been a summer of hauntology. A job cycling around London, memories bursting from every street and alleyway. Friends visiting the country for the first time in years, and conversations picking up after half a decade like nothing has happened or changed.

I have a bit of a mental block when it comes to writing comedy. I’m seeing plenty, and hoping that I will become a better writer through a process of osmosis. Like a shit army, I am always regrouping.

When my mental health goes through a trickier patch, the distance I am able to plan into the future recedes into the immediate. 

Life becomes a series of spinning plates. 

Remember to re-order anti-depressants. Have you leaned your lines for the next show? Who did you arrange to meet up with tonight and how damaging would it be to disappoint them? 

Did you print out and post that important form? Why is a postcard you wrote a month ago rotting in your tote bag?

How quickly is the climate breaking down?

Have you eaten? What needs to be sorted out at right this moment, or preferably a month ago, to avoid bad situations in the future? 

What would happen if I – not you – just let them all stop spinning and crash to the floor, and will the consequences be as bad as I imagine?

In other news, I’ve decided I’d really like a pet duck.