Well, this is awkward.

Last week I didn’t have to write a column, which means I don’t get to benefit from a “here’s what I prepared earlier” moment where I bring out an immaculate soufflé of words to place delicately on this virtual bench top – instead, all I can do is slap a ladle full of beigey-grey sludge into a chipped bowl.

And while it was kind of nice having a break from my weekly written reminders that, yes, I am still a joke of a human being, it does leave me somewhat empty-handed now. I’m finding myself scrambling to pull something together to maintain my minimal relevance in your life and fulfil the self-imposed deadlines I cling to in order to project some semblance of professionalism. I need that illusion of togetherness. Without it, I’m a wreck. Last week I put on bed socks before going to sleep and left them on until I came home from work the next afternoon – and I was wearing open-toed flats.

I mean, I’m not a total wreck as far as meltdowns go – I try to paint myself as juuuust enough of a mess to be comically relatable but not so bad that I make you concerned for my well being. It’s a delicate balance.

Suffice to say, I need that hit of satisfaction I can only get from writing down something productive that I’ve done in my diary. It’s the only thing that gets me through the monotonous white, middle class trudge that is my life – it’s nothing to complain about but just watch me wine! I like control too much/am too poor to get into drugs. I can’t bring myself to drink alone without feeling like I need to listen to an early 90s Jewel CD while sobbing on the floor. And my posts on Instagram are spaced out and sporadic, so I can’t rely on the dopamine kick from likes to sustain me. As such, diary entries and to do lists provide the majority of my highs right now.

So I’m desperately throwing something together on the fly, like a loveable mess of a woman in her mid 30s rushing to put together a dinner party for her friends after discovering she’d made blue string soup. Unfortunately, a conveniently rich Colin Firth isn’t going to swoop in and save the day with an omelette. I have to be my own heroine, it seems. The omelette has to be beaten and fried by me, the master of my own destiny.

The hard part is that I can’t just rely on a half-arsed listicle to fill you up like a strategically-placed breadbasket on a buffet table. I already did that with my column in today’s Clifton paper.

So what am I serving up to you? A hot, steaming pile of distraction. Yes, while you read about my excuses and lamenting ramblings about not having a column for you, it turns out you were reading a column all along. You see, this column is about not having a column. It’s meta. And if you think about it, it’s kind of like pirates setting out on a journey to find treasure when the real treasure was the friendships they made along the way. Kinda.

I totally planned this. Bone apple tea!