Existential crises have got to happen on Sunday night, don’t they? When else would they happen? The thrill of the weekend is wearing down, you have to iron your shirts for the week and you’re chatting with a man you had one spectacular date with and he asks you when you’re coming back and you don’t really have an answer. Well you know the answer, you just can’t tell him. Because if you do, you know it’s over. Whatever “it” is.
And so you just keep ironing. And you realise that you didn’t heed the label on your Escada dress and washed it instead of dry cleaning it and ended up ruining the dress. Well done.
Now go to bed.