I am evolving in isolation down here in Camden, NSW.

I’ve got to say, it’s making me weird. When you are protected from the influence of society, a funny thing happens. Parts of you grow that were previously trampled.

Take my dress sense. I have always been sartorially challenged but I am reaching new lows. I remember being at the Gold Coast with a fashion editor from Melbourne. She archly critiqued my outfit, saying that some girls were too large to wear such small things. And she was right. What the hell was I thinking? I tried that dress on the other day and you can practically see my chubby vulva peeking out from under the hem.

So yes, things have never been good but they’re getting worse.

The other day I wore some sweaty exercise pants, an Indian tunic and my new Blundstones around the house (I am trying to wear them in).

Sometimes I do my hair. Sometimes I wear make up.

I went to a work function in the city the other night and showed up looking every inch the mad aunt. None of my old work clothes fit me and they’re all five years out of date anyway. I was profoundly uncomfortable but not because of the 100% synthetic dress I was wearing.

No, it was the people.

I didn’t really like them. They were petty, and competitive, and said some ignorant things that annoyed me. They reeked of privilege and excess.

I don’t think they liked me either.

I’m out of practice with making small talk. I am losing patience with idiots. Is this a side effect of ageing or is this who I have always been?

The more time I spend alone, the more I paint. The more feminist comedy podcasts I listen to. The more I feel at peace in my own skin.

I am starting to really love my life but I am backward sliding socially. I have always suspected that my authentic self is horribly uncool and the proof is emerging.

It reminds me of this Dylan Moran skit about potential. It turns out that I am a scruffy, garden-obsessed weirdo. Oh dear.

Have you unearthed your true self? Are you disappointed that your real self is not cooler?