It’s Saturday evening, at home. In my sitting room, the curtains are closed to shut out the cold evening. You, my partner, have been gone for four and a half years. I’m about to watch some tv. This room was your favourite room, at one end your old roll top desk, its little pigeon holes full of papers, sketch books, your diary and wallet, painting brushes, a brass compass, photos, two Victorian oil lamps. Clutter. The wall to ceiling bookcase is packed with diverse books, maps, art books and handsome, hard-backed folio editions of biographies, novels, Beano cartoon books, literary quotation and poetry books – you always wanted to learn more. Crammed onto the top shelf is a miniature Victorian pop-up children’s theatre you bought for the grandchildren.