Arrived home at 19:30 after a 13½ hour shift. Felt like some sort of tragic hero returning from battle, except instead of glory I’d only earned chilblains and a suspiciously soggy trouser leg. Spent the entire day outside in conditions that would make a penguin ask for a jumper. Had built up a romantic fantasy of stepping into a warm house and eating something that wasn’t rain-flavoured.

Turned into West End Road, expecting peace and civilisation. Instead, found a scene resembling the last days of Rome, but with hatchbacks. Cars parked everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Couldn’t even get within waving distance of my own home to park. Considered sitting in the van and weeping, but decided instead to try the station car park. Miraculously there was one space left, one! I imagine some commuter abandoned it seconds before, probably off to somewhere warm and snug.

Walked home through drizzle so fine it felt personal. At least Andy has managed to plonk his van—with all his tools—right outside his house, so he can keep an eye on it like some sort of territorial heron. The young couple next door, with the baby, haven’t been so lucky. Nowhere near their house. Couldn’t help imagining them dragging pram, shopping, baby paraphernalia, and the general despair of adulthood across the estate. Felt oddly guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault.