I thought if I could just pull up these weeds my garden would be perfect. My garden is a patio courtyard, a circle of tiles holding a glass-top table, framed with a square of flagstones, and between the cracks there are ants, woodlice, the occasional worm, and weeds.

This season, Love Island set out to answer one very simple question: why are men such trash? Throughout the season, there have been three men who have fuckboy’d their way through. They’ve been rude, inconsiderate and “chaldish”. While we’re all basking in the glow of Gregg and Amber, let’s have a look back at the top three fuckboys of Love Island.

I haven’t left this river bed in six days.

For some inexplicable reason, I feel an intense kinship with Bourdain. I suppose Bourdain feels like my own cautionary tale.

Imagine you’re in bed in freshly washed sheets. You could be wrapped up, breathing slowly, content.

When I feel myself spiralling, I try to notice the small things around me, and pay close attention to them; the exact shade of blue in the sky, the feel of the chair beneath me, the motion of the traffic passing by.

We are now reachable whether we are in the office or not, on holiday or not. The workplace is now portable, and it goes wherever we take it.

Often there is a glaring gap between who we feel we are and who we want to be.

I am allowed to release that rage. So that it doesn’t fester inside of us, inside my heart, where the infection of revenge once set in, a long time ago.