It feels as if I’ve got ants – not in my pants which, if I were that way inclined, might be interesting – but scrawling tiny paths with razor tipped pincers just under my skin. My hands have swollen up “just like 2 balloons”. My eyes are obviously moonlighting as the Sandman’s goods depot and have decided on a look which, if you were being complimentary, could be described as Pigling Bland does twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. My head is thumping, not with pain but with a tympanic wallop that so far the sound of AC/DC put through F’s studio speakers and then mainlined at full volume via the mixing desk into headphones is only slightly masking. My tongue is too big for my mouth, so speech sounds whiskified even if I were capable of the coherent thought necessary to come up with it. I’m sweltering in two t-shirts and a big old jumper of F’s because I’m acutely conscious of all this tumbling flesh that I can’t stand at the moment and want to slash and slash and slash until there’s nothing there. I can’t think straight, stumbling over thinking up words like stumbling and even writing this far is proving to be difficult because in spite of the fact that I’m usually a super-fast touch typist, my co-ordination is non-existent right now and all I really want to do is wander into the kitchen, stand next the china cupboard and start chucking the contents at the walls – just to hear the smash. If I’d known years ago that one croissant and a pain au chocolat had this effect I wouldn’t have spent so much cash on drugs.

I hate feeling like this and I hate myself right now. Because worse then all the above is the violent self-loathing of knowing that it’s your own lack of self-discipline that’s making you feel this way. That if you’d have had the self-control to ignore the temptation of a fresh, warm, just baked croissant (and pain au chocolat) that you knew you shouldn’t eat - and yet despite this knowledge, you still find yourself taking them out of the cupboard in a somnambulant haze and shoving them into your mouth in great desperate untasting gulps. If I’d had the self-control to stop that right before the first bite, to throw them into the bin, grind a cigarette butt into their doughy folds, chuck them in the cat litter tray, do anything that would switch on the “I can’t eat this” button. If I’d been able to do that – then I wouldn’t be feeling like a sack of shit right now.

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