‘I’m just so stressed,” I sigh, flinging myself onto the sofa at my best friend’s house and putting my feet up on her table. It was a Saturday, and I had woken 30 minutes earlier from a luxurious afternoon nap. In the sliding scale of stress — from Deliciously Ella’s yoga teacher to Rob Kardashian’s publicist — I was hovering around the medic who supplied antibiotics for urinary-tract infections to the citizens of Love Island. Busy? Yes. Mind-bogglingly tired and unable to function? Most definitely not. And yet in a world where the “Still at work at 9pm” Insta Story selfie has become de rigueur, “I’m so tired and stressed” seems to be my (probably undeserved) catchphrase.
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