“Come and lie down, the floor is actually really comfy.”

The carpet is blue and speckled and IS surprisingly comfy, I think, as I lay my head on Erica’s* shoulder and rest my eyes. The volume of the music playing in the apartment rises and falls with every swing of the kitchen door. Two people we’ve never met before tonight lie down on the floor with us. Erica is my little bit of comfort in the dark world of London, and I am always glad she is near when I’m pretending to feel grown-up.

“Naomi, you are so fabulous.”

“Thank you, Jay.”

Jay, my main dancing partner for the impromptu party in our kitchen, scoots around us in his tie-dye T-shirt. We borrow my friend Angelface’s boombox, truly a sight to behold—it’s cylinder shaped, black and red, and is without a doubt the best sound system on the block from an aesthetic point of view. I suspect Angelface is the one who gave me the cold I wake up with on Sunday, probably from time spent in his room singing Smiths songs while he played guitar.

I get really hot so I tie my hair back, open the windows as wide as they will go, take my tights off, and throw them at someone’s head. Just when I think I am finished for the night, I put on “Wuthering Heights” and perform my party trick of knowing Kate Bush’s dance by heart.

Colds make me emotional. In the evening I talk to my friend on the phone under my duvet. I think I need to write down all the advice she gives me and read it again and again. I miss my best friend from home. ♦

* All the names in this one have been changed.