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With only a week and a half left of summer holiday, this is the time of year that I like to imagine what it would be like to quit my job and become a Stepford wife. Coffee and acrylic fingernails and a little plastic surgery to entertain myself in my life of leisure. (Sip, click click, sip, sigh.) Summer ends, it always does. This summer I had a stalker, my first real one apart from the fake-accent English guy who used to phone me - when I still lived with parents - to tell me, repeatedly, that he wanted to play with my "nice tits". This modern stalker was more difficult to manage because it was certainly at least partly my fault he felt it was acceptable behaviour to leave notes on my car, to bring me gifts at work, and to send me dozens of messages all day every day. By the time I'd gathered my wits to see what was happening, I felt quite culpable. Although he has been quiet for a few weeks now, I still anticipate that this situation may not be fully resolved. M would like to address him, both "as a man" and in his leadership role. I strongly prefer he not, but this is a selfish wish not to stir any pots that have gone cold. This will reignite something in Semptember, another reason that quitting my job is appealing. Beyond that, I like doing yoga and having afternoon naps. I like baking bread and drinking coffee quietly with no one waiting for me. I like giving no fucks about email. Boredom, I know. I've been bored before. It does happen, it most certainly would. But how long would that take? And would I not, eventually, find something to do? Will Friday change me?