“There comes a time in every girl’s life when she needs to take herself in hand and cheer herself up. For me, it’s generally about now each year, when the nights draw in and my birthday is imminent.

A fortnight in Anguilla would be just the ticket, but is sadly over-ambitious, so I am nothing if not resourceful closer to home. I turn for advice to the trashy magazines that I read when I’ve run out of trashy books. The path to happiness, they say in primary-coloured headlines, is paved with handsome men and buying things, preferably together. This is no help.


Why am I so shallow that there is a direct causal link between how much something costs and how much I like it? I blame my parents: they brought me up with a healthy appreciation of the finer things in life and an inability to earn a wage that could support it. They paid for an expensive education that has left me unable to add up, ignorant of almost everything and largely unemployable, or at any rate totally unsuited to a lucrative career as a banker. Why didn’t they beat me until fractions made sense?


ligar ao meu sentimento de “bad days need pretty things” e entender que, afinal, esta coisa de ter escolhido uma área de trabalho tendo em conta somente o meu gosto e não o mercado de trabalho, resultando em eu estar regularmente falida a meio do mês, pode até nem ser culpa minha… damn you, pais que me apoiam em tudo!