I'm so full of the proverbial

I am a lawyer by training. I am a "writer" by profession. I wake up mornings and drink coffee because it's what's done by normal people. I cut my hair short to try and get myself into this prevailing corporate mentality and so I can fit in with the business-like world of 8.30 am on the Tube. I wear shades of grey so I can blend into the London haze. I skip lunch and have a cheese croissant instead on my way home. I don't smoke anymore because it's frowned upon in my office. I meet clients and smile and discuss their needs, wants and desires whilst maintaining a professional distance. I am pleasant and charming with my superiors. I had a fellow writer 'helpfully remind' me that I need to be polite with the clients (this condescending asshole needed a slap from me). I take work home with me because I have grown-up things like deadlines to meet. I am supposed to develop a writing 'style'. The Royal Courts of Justice are supposed to become a regular haunt.

Yet why do I feel like such a fucking sham when I put a suit on?

I cannot wait to churn out a ludicrous book which will make me shitloads and allow me to wander in whatever my heart desires.

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At the moment my heart is desiring a Herve Leger bodycon dress which I tried on a whim in Harrods then put right back on the rack after looking at the price tag and shedding a few tears. My heart is also desiring sky-high nude Louboutins which would go amazingly well with that dress. Finally, my heart is desiring something, anything anything anything, from Lanvin.