The time is *Never Again*. I’ve just finished watching Doctor Sleep, the fading images of a deadly hotel flickering in my mind. Except there is is no creepy naked elderly woman (unless I’ve accidentally Facetimed my nan. The living one, don’t you worry. The dead one barely answers my emails) nor an A-List celebrity wielding an axe my way. Instead, there are two tiny twins blocking the hallway. Both from China. Both with more qualifications under their belt, including eleven years at the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (bearing in mind, they’re only seven years old). I shudder in place. What have I achieved in 24 years? Wait, no; it’s going to be 24 next Thursday. And the one after. And after that. Because, yeah, I was born in May (happy almost womb extraction day, comment boy).

Stay tuned for next weeks episode where I detail the very few things I have achieved including; getting six boxes of my favourite biscuits sent straight to my house from the books publishers Penguin Random House.

Twitter, it seems, is connected to the USB port in that part of my brain where there’s just several cats sprawled out across a keyboard, pressing anything and everything, typically crap, and sending it. If you decide to use yours again, you’ll never be alone on there. I have approximately 7392794283 versions of myself, and each one is louder than the other.

But anyway. I have concluded: you are me. Or perhaps I’m you. Or maybe we’re half and half, like when you can’t decide between Biscoff cookie dough and white chocolate so you (rightfully) choose both. Either way, I got your back. After those 15 minutes have elapsed I’ll whip you in that gap of your kneecaps that triggers the reflexes in your legs and then you can’t not cut and run the hell out of there. P.S, unless you can get Chanel from Aldi, I want none of it.