I’m sitting in a sea of badly packed moving boxes with a painful bout of shingles and a sprinkling of existential angst. My landlord’s mortgage has been hiked up, so he’s selling up and me and my flatmate are being shoved out once more.
In need of a dose of light relief, I FaceTime my young niece. But she’s distracted, examining my east London rental. Suddenly, I’m incredibly self-conscious about the unjustified amount of faux fruits, framed 90s movie posters and the unwieldy box of skincare products on display.