Start off with a young woman walking up the steps to her apartment building, juggling handbag, computer, briefcase and shopping while she presses in the code that will open the door, walking through the bland carpeted silence of the foyer and going up in the lift to her apartment, undoing the several deadlocks, still juggling bags, dropping them on the coffee table. She loves her apartment, small sitting room, tiny bedroom, large marble bathroom, so elegant, so tasteful, so much her space, minimalist but comfortable. She pours herself a glass of red wine, opens the cupboard with the microwave and sink in it, and puts a slice of pizza in the microwave to heat up. You’re supposed to be able to wrap it in paper towels and have it come out as if it’s been freshly cooked but whatever she tries it ends up soggy or somehow stale. She tries not to let it be redolent of group houses and forgotten pizza growing mould in cardboard boxes under piles of discarded clothing, a way of life now also most happily discarded. The red wine is a good one; taste that instead.

So, what’s this? Is it an extract from my new chick lit novel? Or is it a poignant little urban tragedy? Maybe even an urban myth?