The sound is of the front door closing which is the sweetest sound I have heard in a long time.
This is the sound that wakes me up.
This isn't because there was someone in my bed who has now left to do the walk of shame, this is because the sound of the front door closing is the sound of Sally going on holiday to Bali.
I run to try and peak out of the window to make sure that she is getting into a cab for Paddington.
Oh god, I'm fucking hungover. How could I have let this happen?
In the gym preparing to run. This, I gauge, is the greatest way to work off a hangover.
I am running in the gym.
I am finished running in the gym.
Chris and I are discussing our session next Wednesday. We agree to meet at 5pm and he says I should not eat at least two hours before because otherwise I'll puke.
This is the highest level of excitement-scared I have felt in around 4 days, 7 hours.
On the Bakerloo Line, travelling to Piccadilly Circus where I plan to alight and then walk up Shaftesbury Avenue and into Soho.
This is where I'm going to meet David, the guy who asked for my number on the Central Line.
David phones and I tell him I'm standing between the two signs that say Trashy Lingerie and Cheap Viagra.
We're sitting in Balans restaurant against the wall with the mirrors on it. I tell him that I don't drink and we order a bottle of sparkling water.
Who is this person sitting opposite me? Why am I listening to them as they speak? Am I interested in their story?
Have I actually heard anything they've said in the last 70 minutes?
I find a quiet bench in Soho Square to sit on. A quiet bench in Soho Square means one away from the three old homeless men shouting at each other.
The sun is shining and the light is glinting in the sprinkler. All around there are people sitting on the grass.
Packs of gays are tanning without shirts on. Some of them shouldn't be.
There are other people lying down, resting their heads on each other. Some are holding hands.
A text arrives from David.
"Hi. Good to get to know you a little more. Would like to do it again. x"
I don't text back.
But maybe I should pay it forward, for my own sake.
Maybe every one of us is waiting for a text from someone who we hope will respond.
"Thanks for the message, let's chat later this week."
And so I have paid it forward.
But the ground doesn't open up and there isn't a massive cosmic thank you kiss planted on my forehead.
Instead Alanis reaches the chorus of the song she's singing to me on my iPod.
These are the days of raw despondence
One step, one prayer
I soldier on
And everything becomes a little too bright or I have something stuck in my eyes because I have to put my sunglasses on again.
On the Central Line, I am travelling home.