I lay back in the chair and feel myself deflating, the opposite to my stomach which slowly fills with the buffet I'd just created for myself. Cheese, crackers, pate, pickled onions, bread and ham litter the plate and spill over onto the table, a Ploughmans lunch is my comfort food. My eyes struggle to stay open so, surely at the height of laziness, I decide to close one while I pick out the glass of red wine from amongst the mess on the table. Remarkably I take a sip without spilling any down my front. 'Get Shorty' plays on the television, I mumble something about John Travolta being cool and my housemate just looks over and shakes her head in a manner which tells me she either didn't hear what I was saying, or she heard it perfectly and has given up trying to figure out what goes on in my head, I suspect it's the latter. I spend the rest of the film mumbling things, picking bits of stilton from the plate and trying to figure what goes on in my head myself. It's not a pleasant place to be. Anxiety, fear, loneliness and John Travolta are amongst the thoughts flying around and around. This is one of my down moments, and I don't like it because it makes my fingers smell of stilton.