Dear Dr Gill

Dear Dr Gill,

I used to think I was doing alright. But then I started receiving notifications from Facebook informing me that my profile is a mere 45% complete. Now every day is a  struggle to come to terms with all the time I've wasted, and all that I've left un-done.

I didn’t plan to end up like this, living this half-life. I’m sure you know how it is. You’re young and you think “I’ll give it a miss today; nothing to worry about, I’ll fill out the rest tomorrow.” But the days became weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. Every day that passes makes it harder to get going. Now inertia has me in its vice-like grip, which tightens day by day.

Now all I want to do is lie under the sheets listening to “Time” by Pink Floyd, and stare at that taunting, unfilled, “Ryan, where did you go to high school?” box. Where indeed? I don’t even remember anymore.

I feel like I’ve wasted my life. Yes, I have my health, voluntary work, and a job earning 60k a year - which admittedly supports my wife and three kids pretty well. But what’s the point? 45%. That’s the only number that matters.

Ryan, 34

Spring

The UK’s average temperature reached a balmy fourteen degrees today, inducing a state of happy gridlock on the nation’s roads, as blissed-out motorists continue to insist on letting the other car go first.

Warren Sims, 26, zone six resident, told us, “For the past four months I’ve been labouring daily on a series of underground tunnels which will connect the primary locations in which I intent to run down the remaining years of my life; needless to say, work, the pub, and my ground-floor bedsit.”

“You know that scene in Terminator where that little girl is sat, shivering and alone - the only source of warmth or entertainment a tiny fire she’s viewing through a blown-out TV set – manfully awaiting death?  Every night I’d go to bed wishing my life was as good as that. But now it’s even better.”

Another Londoner told us “I’d spent the winter months, mind ablaze with uncharitable thoughts, possibly just to keep itself warm. For example, the bile would rise in my throat each time I’d hear even a single syllable of my ex-girlfriend’s name – which given that one is literally just “a” made life pretty hard.”

“However, now that the sun is shining and a coat is no longer essential survival gear, I can honestly say I want nothing more than to have her and her nice new fiance Gavin round to play Boggle and discuss baby names.”

However, there was a word of warning from narcotics-user Hattie Smiles. “This one time, around 5:30am, I thought I’d been through my ecstasy comedown and emerged, clean as a whistle, on the other side. It was only a few hours later - as I envisioned myself bobbing like a cork on a cold, ocean tide, drifting further and further out to sea - starkly aware of my personhood as contingent on indifferent, soulless factors untold millions of times more powerful than myself - that I realised how tragicomically wrong I’d been.”

Meteorologist, Lyn Davis, confirmed, "March can be a right bitch.”