Four hours in, Grey’s Anatomy on in the background, it’s time to go under the bed. It might be just me but I’ve always been convinced I'll be murdered and so naturally under the bed is a site of worry for me. For as long as I can remember, I have filled up the space under my bed in order to leave zero room for a very quiet serial killer to lurk while I drift into sleep and wake up with him licking my hand, pretending to be the dog (you’ve heard that one, right?). Anyway, terrified, I start to pull stuff out: a box of linens – usual; some unused running shoes – a mood; a lost makeup bag full of literal gold – so happy; and boxes and boxes of genuine shit. Like actual faeces, if faeces were old torches that never worked and broken Barbies and a fucking cheese grater, what the fuck Marie? Bin it all. Remember time Mum found used anal beads under my bed as I swipe a box crammed with defunct sex toys and chuck them all, too (google whether they are recyclable, still undecided). But then Grey’s Anatomy becomes more gripping — it’s the season six finale, oh my god, stop what you are doing.