Stay up until 4am the night on which your lease runs out. Get up at 6 and spend half the money from the previous night’s shift on a taxi back to flat that legally no longer belongs to you. Indulge in a solid half hour of self loathing and despair at the state you left it in, another querying the mind set that lead to pens in the fridge and butter in the top drawer of the desk that’s never written on, pull a couple of hundred plastic bags of varying sizes and brand identities still damp from their time spent gathering mould and spiders under the sink. Begin to decant the abundance of half empty boxes of stale cereal into said mouldy bags. Go buy some hummus and a cucumber. Eat a croissant and smoke a cigarette. Ponder on pinterest how to successfully channel Bridget Bardot. Obsessively compose a pile of keepsies on sofa. Attempt to sort unwashed clothes into keep and throw, find some red lipstick that you thought you’d lost at the bottom of a bag of dirty socks. Dramatically apply said lipstick and swan around channelling Bridgette Bardot. Smoke a cigarette. Find a skip. The sort to which you send unnecessary tat and poorly made glass christmas angels suspended in baubles to go and die out of the way and unassuming, mummified in plastic bags. Channel Hare Krishna and throw it all away. Put on T.Rex full blast and post repetitive status updates on Facebook about all of the above.