Most of those projects don’t come to much – I’ll write a truly terrible short story about a love affair between myself and my imaginary tutee, say, or I’ll start and never finish the first episode of my one-woman podcast about anxiety. But I enjoy the creative space. And I like knowing that no one knows how deeply bad what I have been typing all afternoon is. When I was working at that national newspaper, I spent most of my time praying that no one would give me anything to write, because I would reveal myself to be totally untalented. Eventually I was fired – not for anything dramatic, just because they were culling freelancers – and it was the biggest relief of my life. It was only then, when I was unemployed, and afterwards when I was working odd jobs that I had time to get over myself a little bit. To stop thinking that everything I made and thought had to be perfect, and to realise that no one actually cared what I was doing with my life except me.