In the mornings, I would find time to do a yoga session and then work out before getting my hair professionally blow dried. My eyeliner would be perfectly applied, and never accidentally turn out ten times bolder than I’d intended. I’ll be cured of my aversion to smoothies and begin eating a smoothie bowl every morning, which I’ll Instagram and garner hundreds of likes on. I will spend my tube journey jotting down ideas of great importance, rather than listen to The Piña Colada Song on repeat with the volume on low in case someone hears it, or reading the terms of conditions of every advert in order to avoid making eye contact with strangers.
I would have nailed the whole capsule wardrobe thing instead of filling my room with clothes that I foolishly rip the tags off of, decide I hate, and then can no longer return. I’d own an array of garments that were cohesive and yet different enough to keep things interesting, and while walking to the office, someone would ask me to pose for a street style Instagram account and naturally I’ll oblige. At work, I’d suddenly have to take lots of important meetings, my notebook brimming with ideas and important things to do instead of a largely blank page that only contains the words “remember: buy grated cheese later.” On more than one occasion, my colleagues would deem my observations “revolutionary.” Imbued with the entirely new personality, I’d make excellent jokes at the coffee machine in the office and say things like “you take it easy now Sandra!” instead of zoning out and replying to questions like “how was your weekend?” with “you too!". I’d have a sudden predilection for all those foods where the vegetables are disguised as carbs, and upon getting home I would make a cauliflower pizza from scratch. Whenever I did make pasta, I would know the correct amount and not accidentally make enough to feed five people.
My “off-duty” wear would be the slouchy shirt, skinny jeans and ankle boots combination described in women’s magazines instead of leggings I’ve owned for five years and an oversized Harry Potter T-shirt bought from the Warner Brothers studio tour. My weekends would be spent doing all the productive things I plan in my notebook – visiting museums and galleries, going for brunches with friends and then finding time to go for a hike before attending one of the three parties I’ll have been invited to (there’s only so much time in the day!) instead of sitting on the sofa for hours while scrolling through the Instagram of a social-media famous Labrador, before accidentally opening the front camera and being horrified by the unflattering under-chin angle. I would watch Netflix in moderation and even then it would only be documentaries, instead of re-watching It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia from the beginning for the seventh time. With all the writing I’d be doing in my new notebook, I’d become adept at crafting wry and witty tweets based on the day’s happenings, and do a lot less live-tweeting of every episode of Riverdale.
I would always remember to do face masks once a week instead of opening them, using them once and having to throw them away six months later, and at night I'd employ a ten-step skincare routine with ease – no more hastily applying spot cream, forgetting to wash it off it in the morning and then wondering why someone at the corner shop is looking at me strangely. I’d then get into a matching set of silk pyjamas and ruminate in my journal on the day I had. Calligraphy would magically flow from my pen whenever I went to write so I would never end up frustrated at my handwriting and rip out a page. I would remember to drink two litres of water every day but wouldn’t have to pee every ten minutes, and my skin would be so radiant that people would be constantly pestering me for my routine. I would conveniently leave out my ten-step skin care routine and reply “oh this? I just drink water.”
Carrying my new notebook with me, people will be in awe of my writerly ways. One day while enjoying a flat white at a coffee shop (I would no longer exclusively drink very syrupy frappuccinos), a TV executive would approach me and enquire about what ideas lay in such a brilliant notebook. Naturally, the TV show I’d be commissioned to make would collect multiple awards and would last for five seasons – the correct amount to stop it getting stale – and catapult me into stardom. When I would eventually die of old age having been given a knighthood and started two charities, the excellent ideas and words in my journal would be given to a museum..