“But you never were that creative!” Shrieks my mother, the straightforward and stable corporate ladder disappearing from sight, rung by rung.

…

“Have you figured out what your pension arrangement will be?” Challenges my father, brow arching over the turned-down corner of the Telegraph.

…

“You can’t quit. You’re the best damn headhunter this side of Sheffield. The company NEEDS you.” Cries my boss, throwing tear-stained fistfuls of cash after me as I sling my lanyard into the industrial shredder. *

*Ok this is how I imagine it going. I’m yet to hand in my notice.

…

“Oh, that sounds… fun?” Murmurs my sister, her eyes quickly darting back to the humorous yet casual hinge message she’s been concocting for the last seventeen minutes.

…

“Hmm.” Muses my brother, his lips twitching into a slight smile of both warmth and uncertainty. (Translation: “I support you in trying to do this, but I don’t have faith in your ability to go far in this field.”)

…

“They make some fair points you know.” Whispers the absolute shit of an internal monologue I’ve developed recently.

…

“Woof.” Woofs Molly, Tilly and Toby, tails wagging as they look up in hope of a belly rub.

…

The dogs are the only ones who really get me.