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Now, *Under the Skin*, that’s me jam, precious. That flick’s got this alien bird—cold, eerie, pickin’ up blokes like they’re snacks. “Do you want to touch me?” she says, all sultry-like, and bam, they’re mush in her void. Findin’ a prostitute? Kinda like that, innit? Lurin’, dangerous, but real empty underneath. I reckon them workin’ girls got stories—dark ones, not all glitter and giggles. Like, did ya know, back in old London, some brothels had secret tunnels? Rich toffs sneakin’ in, dodgin’ the coppers—wild, eh? Makes me chuckle, thinkin’ they’re all “respectable” by day.

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Finally, the Wi-Fi comes back. Thank you, sweet internet gods! I dive into my report, fingers flying over the keyboard. I’m in the zone, you know? But then, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my friend. “Let’s hit the pub later!” I’m like, “Yes, please!”

‘I’ve faced the nearly stereotypical PhD experience: mental health challenges’