Chapter One

When my mother knocked on my door, I knew that I was in for a lecture. Sally had three tiers of motherly concern. Stage one was so subtle you wouldn’t even notice it, slipping in sentences like I have a friend who seems a little overwhelmed lately, isn’t that a shame? Stage two was forwarding articles on hygge and motivational TED talks. Stage three is a full-blown intervention. These three stages can occur within the space of three weeks or three hours depending on the severity of your concern and the sincerity with which you react to each one. Kicking myself for not having predicted this when she sent me the link to a wood chopping retreat in Norway, I invited her in and offered her some tea, as is customary amongst adults. “I’ll cut to the chase,” she said by way of reply, “Jessica, you need to get your life together.”

“Can we at least sit down?” My flat was open plan, which usually makes spaces seem bigger but whoever built this building seemed to use that as an excuse to cram everything as close as possible without causing nuclear fusion. Lean back in the living room and you were in the kitchen, take one step to the left of the cooker and you were deep into the study. I sat on one couch, two inches from my fridge and my mother sat in the rickety chair opposite I’d attempted to make look festive by throwing a blanket over.

“You’re struggling.” Sally explained. I opened my mouth to protest but she held up a hand. “I was doing some reading…” I rolled my eyes, “…don’t roll your eyes at me!” Sally was the queen of pop psychology. Four listicles she’d found on Facebook and all of a sudden she was psychoanalysing me and my friends. Let’s not forget the Christmas she diagnosed Aunt Helen as a psychopath because she wouldn’t eat my mother’s vegan take on pigs in blankets (it’s carrot wrapped in spinach if you’re wondering). “I was doing some reading and I think that you might have what’s known as high functioning depression.”

“Mum,” I said, taking every effort I had to be patient, “I’m not depressed.”

“Jess, you’ve spent every weekend for the past two months in your pyjamas binge watching television and eating popcorn out of your bellybutton. You haven’t been on a date in six years and the only thing in your wardrobe that isn’t black or white is beige office wear.”

Okay, sure. If you put it all together like that it sounds pretty bad but, like always, Sally was way off the mark with this one. “That’s just my downtime, mum. Work is so busy at the weekends all I want to do is loaf.”

“Well you’re loafing your life away.”

“You’re the one who’s always talking about how there’s no one idea of success and happiness. What if this is my idea of happiness? Like look at this,” I got off of my chair and went three paces into my study. “Now you say all that TV is binge watching ta da! I’ve been making a pop up book about the Henry VIII’s reformation. I’m engaging with my interests!” I opened the cover and a 3D abbey sprang out. Sally looked at the pile of card in my hands and shook her head slowly.

“You need to get out of this house. You work all the time, why don’t you travel? See another human who isn’t on your laptop screen.”

“I travel all the time. I went to London just last month.” It was for the wedding of an ex but Sally didn’t need to know that.

“Jess, you are young, you are capable and you are beautiful. You can’t spend all of your life in this tiny flat.” The lecture continued for another half an hour, although I zoned out for the rest of it. It wasn't anything that I hadn't heard before. You're wasting your life et cetera. Once Sally had finished she gave me a pat on the arm. I realised that this was the part where I made the right sounds.

“You’re right. I’ve been in a bit of a rut but I’m really going to make an effort to put myself outside of my comfort zone.” This was the kind of tactical half-truth that you tell your parents. In theory I’d love to be Blog Woman. You know that woman who has a husband who cycles and two kids that she’s raising on activities she finds on Pinterest and she’s doing a masters but still posts quotes about life being hard but keeping your chin up. Live, laugh, love. Even if she doesn’t really have a blog you know that she’s just two glasses of wine from throwing caution to the wind and giving it a whirl. Who wouldn’t love to be Blog Woman? Blog Woman is down to earth and embraces the challenges of life by day and throws dinner parties by night. Try as I might I’m not Blog Woman. I never have been. When I was little, I was the kid who was constantly muddy and not in a charming Ariel advert kind of way. At high school I was Library Girl and now that I’m in my twenties I’m Goblin Woman. I live in my dark hovel, emerging only for food and work. I have never eaten a salad that I genuinely enjoy and I am the proud owner of a collection of Dr Seuss books I keep in a box under my bed.

Of course, I don’t want to be Goblin Woman. I want that group of wise-cracking wine drinking friends and maybe to do an obstacle course challenge. But you go to one yoga class and feel a bit left out so you don’t go to another one. You want to download a dating app but the best kind of pictures for that are taken by your aforementioned friends and not ones of you and the dog wearing matching jumpers at Christmas. So yes mum, maybe you do end up alone in your living room/kitchen/study eating microwave pizza and making historical pop up books, it’s a slippery slope. I was never not going to be Goblin Woman. I would be Goblin Woman until I made my natural progression into Witch Woman at the age of sixty-two when I started to give out raisins at Halloween and being known as Mrs Hooper despite never having married.

Sally left eventually. After what she had said to me, perhaps I should have had a degree of shame about what I did next. But season seven of Britain’s least haunted houses had just come out, so I got myself some popcorn, turned off the lights and watched TV until I fell asleep with the kernels in my bra.