I sit in a prefab office behind our house, writing and smoking a fag, my fifth one today, despite the husband tut-tutting after noticing the three butts in the sitting room ashtray. Words are swirling in my head, forming into a woman looking at her body in the bathtub as if it was an interesting, vaguely familiar landscape. From my chair, I see modest rooftops, a mountain (ever implacable, our genuis loci), trees engorged with the furtive movements of birds. There’s a wood pigeon nearby, calling: coo-coo-cu-cu. At my feet, a dog snores, feet pulsing as he dreams. I'm wearing the same jumper I wore all last week, dotted with crumbs and ash. Not that anyone's looking. No one has been looking, but I insist on putting on eyeliner and lip gloss every morning.