I will have to enter your house now.

Oh, you made a hearty job of clearing out. It's what kept you going those final months.

I don't know when I'll do it, Dad. I still feel like I need to make an appointment, habit being such. Of course Thom is too young to help and there's a melodrama in seeking the support of anyone else. And after all, if grief is anything, it's not lonely. Though objectively, I suppose, this is very likely the most lonely time of my life. George is in Asia, looking for a new wife and old recipes. He sends a marvellous postcard. I dumped Buckley, as promised. I am also professionally negligent in not seeking out another supervisor. I'd like to keep it simple for a while, perhaps rope in a Gestaltist. And I seem to have removed myself from my friends in psychotherapy, prefering the company of Renaissance scholars and obese women. And even Gareth, when he sees my eyes glaze over, is aware that it's not about him.