Lucinda Williams is moaning about making mistakes but I have already gone this morning to pick up my laundry and now I am picking my leisurely way through a hot poached egg on toast and a steaming latte.

On the escalator to work I put my hand on the black rubber rail. It is cranky and jerks my hand upwards in spasms, making my ring flash in the light. The ring will outlive me, I have designed it to be so.

It's time, it's time, it's time. I will talk into the night until my brain has gone slurry but in the morning the questions remain. How much more are you willing to miss? When will you finally forgive yourself? Do you dare to see yourself as you are?