Dear Diary. I’m sitting cross-legged on a sofa bed, with my laptop on my lap, rather fittingly. Its fan hums gently. Occasionally the laptop makes a kind of crackling noise. All laptops do this and I’ve never found out why.

A drill-like sound comes from behind a wall, and I hear water flowing from a tap. Probably the neighbour is taking a shower. The traffic outside steadily rumbles by. Sometimes there is loud chatter and the occasional “Whoooo!” from someone partying.

Suddenly the fridge or freezer fan comes to life, making a loud, high-pitched noise like a Dalek. After a few seconds, it quietens down a little.

The only movement in the room is a tiny blue light on the modem, which flickers like a trapped moth. All day and all night it flickers tirelessly. It is the hardest working light in whole apartment. It is desperately trying to tell me something, but without words, like an agitated dog whose owner has fallen down a well, or a babbling baby. Despite its unwavering enthusiasm, I do not understand its intended meaning one iota. I suspect this tiny light has gotten carried away with a sense of its own self-importance, completely above and beyond its intended function to simply tell me if the internet is available or not. I decide that whatever the light wants to tell me so badly, it is probably not really worth knowing. The internet works and that is all that matters.

Today’s laundry is hanging up on a drying rack near the window. There’s a pizza box on a table and a flower bought for me on Valentine's Day.

My muscles are sore from sitting here at the computer for much of the week.

This is my prison. My cage. My sanctuary. My workplace. My apartment. My home.