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I’m in the Daunt Books on Marylebone high street. I have already swung my wet umbrella into the kindly-looking chap who works there. He has explained that they have an umbrella stand I am welcome to use. I think about explaining that I’m not entirely sure how to close my umbrella, but decide instead to stuff it still open into the stand. I’m sure he will think I am one of those exceptionally busy women who do not have time to faff about with minor things like closing umbrellas and brushing their hair etc. (I’m not sure, but I think someone has stolen my hairbrush).

I have a pleasant meander around the bookstore. I eavesdrop much too close to a couple who are looking at a book called ‘What we mean when we talk about love’. I think about telling them to not buy this book under any circumstances. I decide against it. I congratulate myself on my newfound discretion. I accidentally walk into a table covered with books. Several fall off. I walk away quickly.

I notice the kind salesguy is still there.  ‘Can I ask you a question please?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘You see these books? How do you decide which ones to put here, at the front?’ I think about making a sweeping hand gesture to show him what I mean, but decide it is wisest not to. The salesguy begins to explain the various market forces at work in Daunt Books. I realise that I don’t care. What I really wanted to ask him was, ‘do you know how many of these books I have read? These books here at the front desk, which you are clearly trying to promote? Go on, ask me!’ I realise the real reason I am in Daunt Books, wandering around wetly, knocking their books over and standing too close to other customers, is because I would like to show-off. Unfortunately, despite their excellent customer service, no one has asked me to point out how well-read I am, or asked my opinion on this Summer’s bestsellers. I realise the salesguy has stopped talking. Panicking, I clutch at the nearest book. ‘Is this entertaining?’ ‘Well, it’s about the Holocaust.’ I think my time for showing-off is over.

I can’t be bothered to get into the details (it’s the lying contractors’ fault), but I am currently staying in someone else’s flat. The irritation and inconvenience of this is not to be underestimated. (For me, obviously. They are delighted to have me to stay). Let me explain. I don’t have a key. Last week (yes, I have been staying there for some time. Like the perfect guest) I left the flat and realised I didn’t have my oyster card. Did you know it cost £4 to make a single journey into zone 1? That’s quite a lot of money. I’m not sure the session with my therapist was worth it, to be perfectly honest.

There’s only one bathroom. So in the morning I have to loiter hopping from foot to foot while other people shower, then dash in to wee, and then dash out before anyone looks properly at my ‘not for other people’s eyes’ sleeping
attire. I then thoughtfully go back to sleep while everyone else leaves for
work. It is after this that I get my best snooping done. These people have a
lot of mouthwash, for instance. I try some, but accidentally choke a little. Luckily they also have a great deal of diet coke, which is handy.

I have packed a bag for my stay, but I have missed out a few essential items. Namely, clean clothes. I think the people in the flat have started to notice. I think this, because they have asked me repeatedly why I am wearing the same t-shirt every day. I try to draw their attention to my generous supply of contact lenses and the 3 books I have brought. They are oddly uninterested.

Last night at dinner I tried to show them my toe which has lost a toenail. They
were equally disinterested. The Telegraph’s survey stated that the most
irritating things for British people were ‘chavs’ and ‘people driving too close
behind you’. Clearly, they have not lived in a flat where the mouthwash was
dangerous and no-one cared about their naked toe.

I am meant to be meeting some friends for dinner. This event has recently changed from an ‘at home’ event to a restaurant affair. Someone has suggested Wahaca. Everyone is enthusiastic. I reply curtly, ‘I hate Wahaca, and will not be eating there. All other restaurants good.’ There is resounding silence from my friends. I can
tell that they would prefer to eat at Wahaca without me.

This is just another example of the pernicious effect Wahaca is having upon my life. First time I went there, I took some of their free matches. In a later romantic situation (I look 236% better in candlelight, and therefore like all romantic events to take place in semi-gloom. Trust me, it’s wise) I attempted to use these matches to frantically yet seductively light candles. No go. The whole event was a bust, naturally (direct light is not my friend). Turns out Wahaca, because they’re so bloody ‘Mexican’ and whatnot, don’t give out free matches. From Wahaca, you get chilli seeds. I’m serious. Little
strips of chilli seeds that come in a matchbox. Presumably so you can finger these chillis and then wipe your eyes, and re-experience the joys of Wahaca.

I was dragged back to Wahaca on a second occasion. I left the first visit hungry yet poor, so this time I decided to ask the waiter’s advice. Unfortunately, I was a little too enthusiastic in my new relationship with the waiter, and very nearly was dumped after dinner. I blame Wahaca entirely.

In its final twist of the knife, Wahaca has now seen to it that I am eating dinner alone tonight. No boyfriend, no eyesight, no friends. I expect Wahaca will soon be visiting to inform me it has bought my house, and I should leave immediately. My friends will probably rush over for dinner.

A dear friend came to see me on Wednesday. She has been living in the States for the last 8 years, but I thought she was coping fairly well. Until last week, when I noticed that she had arrived wearing trainers. Proper, white, ‘I’m just about to go for a run’ trainers. With her jeans.  In the past, I have been known to ruthlessly mock people for certain things (being fat, telling unfunny jokes, wearing a cast) that have turned out to have medical reasons. So this time, I trod carefully. ‘I noticed you are wearing trainers.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Is there perhaps a reason for that?’ ‘What?’ ‘Dear God, why are you wearing trainers? That’s not even close to acceptable.’ My friend seemed bizarrely unbothered. (There is nothing more infuriating than people not understanding tremendously important things). There are many great things about America. This is not a post about that. This is a post to tell people that:

1. It is unacceptable to wear gleaming white running trainers with normal clothes.
2. Bum bags (hilariously called ‘fanny packs’ by Americans) are unacceptable, even in East London. It’s not ironic. There is no reason for you to need to have both your hands and pockets free at all times. London is not under attack. You are not Indiana Jones.
3. I understand that with rising high street rents and the crippling financial pressures that mean economies of scale are now even more imperative than ever, we live amongst a proliferation of chain stores. It is still unacceptable to wear matching outfits.

I imagine my friend, living in the sleepy backwaters of New York, will be tremendously grateful for this missive from the Big City. I hope she passes it on to her American comrades. (They’re communists, right? That’s why they left the cozy confines of the Empire? I’m sorry, at school we really focused on proper history- Churchill’s afternoon naps and that kerfuffle in the Falklands).

Virgin Atlantic are to put “weep warnings” on tearjerker films shown on flights. This is excellent, because it proves without doubt that the world actually does revolve around me. I am eagerly awaiting further developments:

1. Supermarkets to offer pre-prepared shopping baskets. This will mean that all you have to do is walk into Tescos, pick up your basket and take it to the till. Inside your
basket will be a nutritionally balanced asortment of reasonably priced food.
You will arrive home to find you have actual ingredients that could conceiveably make a meal, rather than 4 different types of ketchup (bought for comparison testing purposes) and a tub of fresh mint (because it smelled nice).
2. Public toilets to make use of the expected waiting time display screens used by tubes and buses. Actually, it doesn’t even have to be public toilets. All toilets should use this. I will look into getting one installed in my flat immediately. ‘You will be able to wee in 3 minutes. Probably shouldn’t have had that second glass of wine’ etc.
3. All TV shows will be re-formatted with characters speaking in RP. This means I will finally be able to understand The Wire. I am thrilled. (No, putting subtitles on does not help. Speaking properly is not a disability. We are not to be pushed to the edge of society).

I would expand further but I’m afraid I have to rush off and patent my new tv remote (which only has one button yet always turns on to the best thing on tv at that moment. Which will be in RP, naturally).

I’m standing in the big Waterstones yelling at my Mother, ‘It’s on the road to Fortnums. Head as if going to Christies!’ She is asking if it is on the same side as Whiteleys (apparently she meant Lillywhites) and I’m reduced to shouting, ‘Fortnums! Christies!’ like some excessively crazed country-estate housekeeper down to London to do her chores.

The trouble is, I hate giving directions. I have only the most tenuous understanding of ‘left’ and ‘right’ and therefore when people ask if I know the way, I invariably say no. (This gets a little awkward when we’re trying to get to my house). The arrival of Google Maps was one of the happiest days of my life. Finally, I had been replaced by a computer. The future is glorious. My own map-reading skills have not progressed much further than turning the map around continually and ‘feeling’ the right way. I will try at all costs to avoid meeting people in parks, outside tube stops, in department stores. Basically, I will only meet you in a bar. I will establish beforehand that we are to locate each other, ‘by the bar’. If there are several bars in the establishment, it is to be ‘the bar with the largest assortment of alcohol on display’. We are to remain on our feet until we have found each other.

As you can see, I have a pretty sturdy plan for avoiding both map-reading and direction-giving. This would be great, except other people don’t care. Apparently it is ‘weird’ to want to meet in a bar at 9.30am. People get ‘tired’, and want to sit down before I have arrived. People promise the park is ‘small’ and that they are ‘easy to find’. People are liars. My therapist moved rooms a while ago. I genuinely believed that I would never see her again. She sent detailed instructions on how to find her for our session. Once I had stopped sobbing, I alighted upon a plan. I would take a taxi! I would be deposited right in front of her! The taxi driver asked me for directions. I hate people.

‘I’m popping out for a run.’ ‘That’s nice.’ ‘I’m literally ‘running’ away from my work. Do you get it, Mum?’ ‘Yes. Very witty. Bye.’

I started running when I was 16 years old, the Summer of GCSEs. My little sister and I worked at the same desk, each of us sitting on one side, complaining bitterly about loud breathing and encroaching feet. (I’m not entirely sure what she was revising for, but it was well established that my exams were superlatively important). After lunch my sister would take a nap, and I would go for a run. I believe it took me the same amount of time to get changed as I spent outside ‘running’, but I had an exceedingly jazzy minidisc player and had spent hours making the perfect mix. Every so often I would run down to Ladbroke Grove, and attempt to run up the hill to Notting Hill Gate. I consistently failed to do this, and remembered every time why running is no fun at all.

The trouble is, I kept at it. Because running is fair. The more you run, the easier it gets. That’s it. There’s nothing else. You simply put one foot in front of the other. (Not directly in front of the other- it would be impossible to balance). Every run, your lungs hurt less. Every run, you wonder what the hell you are doing hurling yourself around the streets of London instead of taking a nap. Because when looked at logically, running is no fun at all. The pleasure/pain ratio is horribly disproportionate. There are two sweet, exalting moments in every run. The first 5 steps, when nothing hurts and everything is full of promise. And the moment you overtake someone. Anyone. A child will do. Though not a child on those silly scooter things. Those are deceptively fast. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of smug self-satisfaction. (It is completely fine to overtake old people, feel tremendously smug and then hide round the corner for a break. Although I did this yesterday, and an old woman stopped to ask if I was OK. Well, I assume that’s what she was asking. I was listening to Lil Wayne so I couldn’t hear a word she said. For a moment I thought she was asking me to lick her lollipop).

So you see, I kept running because I was consistently fooled. At the start of every run, I believed that this would be the run where nothing hurt, where I could run for miles with pleasure, where I would get to the other side of the mountain that separates Ladbroke Grove from Notting Hill Gate. I kept running because I am an idiot. I kept running because I love it.

Today running is better than it was 10 years ago. We have IPods, and GPS trackers so you can see exactly how many miles you’ve covered. The great thing about tracking miles is you can upload them, and show everyone. What I’m saying is, running today is better because there are more opportunities to show off. And people have gotten fatter, so they’re easier to overtake.