I’m not quite a virgin, but almost – I started a blog, stopped like a lazy slut, and started again because my web wizards Louise and Andrew made me.

So, hi, y’all. It’s 5.00 in the afternoon. I’m just waking up and just finished lunch at Joe and the Juice, a kind of tuna and avocado in two pieces of cardboard and a Reviver, consisting of fruits with a twist of ginger, making it almost alcoholic. Coffee. Of course. Always the coffee. I adore Starbucks House Blend. Please don’t tell anyone.

I am a night person, an insomniac, the girl at the bar who looks like she should have gone home and maybe has no home to go to. I write in the dead hours between two and six while London sleeps and the night planes follow the Thames into Heathrow carrying bankers and refugees hoping to make it in the greatest city on earth, the city where I was born.

When I do sleep, I sleep badly – in spite of the magnets under my mattress that are supposed to orientate my body north to south so the dragon lines pass through the invisible portal at the top of my skull and down to my feet, my best feature, according to Tom, my boyfriend. Tom’s a doctor saving the planet’s poor and downtrodden with Médecins Sans Frontières – he’s so kind and selfless, I have stopped being promiscuous and, when he is home, I catch up for lost time and sleep like a baby in his arms.

Stay with me, baby.