Christmas passes almost before anyone has noticed its arrival. However, it would be foolish of your narrator to allow this opportunity for consolidation to wend its merry way into history without comment. Let’s face it, Christmas is a time to relax and gently mull over the preceding year’s events before commencing anew. Pardon? Madame Martin feels there’s little opportunity to relax in her ever-shrinking, increasingly dilapidated kitchen: a kitchen constantly full of all and sundry bringing their emotional baggage à table to which we will return shortly.

At home, any home, one is often expected to pass the season of goodwill with those family members to whom the least amount of goodwill is voluntarily expended during other times of the year. It’s a bit different for the ex-pats in Provence who have made a new life in distant climes. For a start, they wouldn’t have moved to the South if they had any desire to be in regular contact with many of their biological relatives. They certainly wouldn’t have chosen to live along the road that runs between Noves and Cabannes if they wanted to be easily found. But, for most of them, there’s an ingrained debt to this cultural business of sharing seasonal bonhomie. It’s true that the partner who cannot be named has little interest in stories linked to stars and stables. Neither has he much of an appetite for the giving of expensive gifts, or cheap ones. The partner has been a little grumpy of late owing to the onset of a tediously dull pain in his lower back. Phyllida has taken him to Noves where Dr Giraud was unable to determine the reason; largely because wooden chaise longues were absent from any account of possible causal activities. He has advised a course of yoga. Phyllida is extremely happy with this prescription as the partner will now be able to accompany her to the centre culturel once a week. The partner is less than happy.

In the meantime, they have shared a festive dinner with Louise, Louise’s visiting (and possibly welcome) mother and Louise’s lawn-mowing husband. Myrtle and Richard Meades were also in attendance. The appearance of these extra guests was also a source of dismay to the partner who cannot be named as, in his opinion, far too much conversation was exhausted on the subject of cricket. Nonetheless, there may have been a geographical resolution of sorts. Louise’s husband has offered to mow a wicket in their parkland in order that the ex-pat team has a practice venue. Apart from the minor irritation of the sports interlude, which was easily managed with a few extra aperitifs, the celebrations were enjoyable.

Louise, as everyone agrees, is an excellent chef. She has managed to secure a large goose on the table whilst simultaneously producing a succulent nut roast for her vegetarian neighbours. To aid her culinary expertise, she has, of course, the advantage of owning the best available in the departments of kitchen equipment and utensils. The Norwegian Blues, meanwhile, have been left at home with platefuls of gourmet goodies fit for their delicate palates. Nanette, however, being the pampered lady of Mas Saint Antoine when guest dogs are absent, is resplendent in her self-contained exhibitionism. She lies on her back in front of the fire, legs stuck at various angles, displaying a rather distended tummy. She looks full of goose. Louise tries hard not to look at Nanette. Louise knows only too well that it’s not a goose which lurks inside her beloved lady dog. Like the spring flowers that currently lie dormant beneath the gardens of Provence, the thing that is not a goose waits to make an appearance. Unlike the golden crocuses, the not-a-goose-in-waiting has more to do with a wolf dog than floral adornments that might have been planted for the delight of early holiday makers.

Over at chez Martin, the celebrations have also been in full swing but were not undertaken with the advantages of an avante garde kitchen. The last thing that Madame Martin thinks about is the potential paternal responsibilities of Clovis. Of these, she has no idea as she batters her tiny route around the kitchen of despair. Was it so long ago, she wonders, that she accompanied Monsieur Villiers to see the santons in the crèche at Frigolet? How she would have loved to see the seasonal display in the town hall of Tarasçon. Poor Tarasçon: vilified throughout the year for its nerve to sit adjacent to smelly Beaucaire, suddenly redeems itself each Christmastide with the most extraordinary account of Provençal social history. The miniscule clay visitors wend their supplicating way up the stairs of the Hôtel de Ville, round the corner to the epicentre of the nativity and yet again celebrate the arrival of Jesus in Provence.

Madame Lapin has been celebrating the arrival of, amongst others, Jean-Pierre Lucard. In this, she has imbibed more than one aperitif as she considers that, had Daudet been alive and present chez elle this Christmastide, he almost certainly would have felt obliged to write a prominent paella purveyor into correspondence from his windmill. There are, of course, others: Christophe, Netty and her father who has travelled from the Camargue, Monsieur Martin, Sophie, Dr Giraud and the obligatory goose. Nut roasts, however, do not comprise an element of this gathering. Nut roasts comprise an unknown concept at the bottom of the lane that runs from the road between Noves and Cabannes.

Since the errant Jean-Pierre Lucard returned to the fold, Madame Lapin is a changed woman from the one who attended that distressing interview earlier in the month. Mascara, for example, now accentuates a pair of bright eyes rather than running in lava-like rivulets down red, puffy cheeks. Hair has been piled high with deliberately falling wisps shaping that not-really-enigmatic face. Of course, clothing has been chosen with care: the right parts of the body are emphasised and the not-so-good quarters are pleasantly disguised. And everything has been dressed with a variety of sparkling and seasonal adornments: earrings, necklaces and a bracelet that proudly sits below Madame Lapin’s sleeve, next to the place where she wears her heart.

Jean-Pierre Lucard is still wearing his summer ensemble. Come hell or high wind, both of which have made more than one appearance during the preceding autumn, the paella purveyor, immune to meteorological inconsistencies, can be depended upon in the department of sartorial. The pale pink shirt is currently replaced by one in a pleasant shade of grey. Naturally, in the winter warmth of the kitchen chez Martin, he’s been able to open a few buttons and his golden medallion shines like a gift from a passing king. Actually, in this part of the world, the kings don’t pass this way until epiphany at which point vast amounts of gateaux will be eaten; and numerous admissions to the Henri Duffaut hospital in Avignon will witness mass choking on miniature cartoon characters hidden in the depths of the epiphany cakes. In the meantime, Jean-Pierre Lucard also sports a glinting wrist. The person who once dared to call herself a feminist has given her lover an identity bracelet with her own name engraved upon.

Amongst other gifts, Madame Lapin has donated an enormous bunch of mistletoe which now hangs on a handy nail above the kitchen table. Each time someone stands up, they are knocked sideways by the foliage and berries fall like poisonous snowflakes into the food below. ‘Putain’, thinks Madame Martin although, secretly, she’s delighted to have her friend and business partner back on board. What’s really annoying her, however, is the continuous talk of cricket. How times change.Let’s be clear, this is Provence. People flock to Provence precisely because things don’t change. Generally. When was the last time someone suggested holding a cricket match in a bull-ring?

From the clear winter skies above chez Martin, the faintest of passing sleigh bells might be heard by anyone who is not busy celebrating. And in his secret grotto under the festive table Clovis lifts a quizzical ear and whines.

Following recent events in the other country, I telephone my holiday insurance company to make a claim for stolen items:

Me: hello, I’d like to make a claim

Her: this will take around 15 minutes. Is that ok?

Me: is this a local call?

Her: what do you mean? You’re calling mmmmmst

Me: sorry, I didn’t quite understand. What am I calling?

Her: Mauritius

Me: Right. So not a local call then?

Her: Hold the line … deafening music unsuitable for those with ear problems

Her: Shall I call you back?

Somewhat surprisingly, she did.

Her: can I call you Alison or Ms Green?

Me: you can call me Alison

Her: Well, Ms Alison, were you at home when this occurred?

Me: well no, I was in France.

Her: what were you doing there?

Me: I was on holiday. I’m claiming from my holiday insurance.

Her: what was stolen?

Me: my reading glasses

Her: do you have a picture of your sunglasses?

Me: No – they were my READING glasses

Her: do you have a picture of your reading glasses?

Me: no

Her: don’t you have a picture of you wearing your reading glasses?

I’ll just get a picture of someone wearing glasses off the net then

Her: what else?

Me: my wallet

Her: do you have a picture of your wallet?

Me: do you have a picture of YOUR wallet?

Her: no, of course not.

Me: well then

Her: have you got a bill for the wallet?

Me: it was a gift

Her: can you get the person who gave you the wallet to write a letter saying how much it was?

(I phone my mother who gave me the wallet and ask whether she could write a letter to this effect.

Mother: I don’t know how much it cost

Me: well can you write to say it was £25?

Mother: oh no, I wouldn’t have spent that much

Me: cheapskate)

Her: what else?

Me: well 110 euro.

Her: have you got a statement to prove this?

Me: no

Her: I’m very sorry for your loss

With retirement looming, I’d entertained the idea of becoming a ‘trusted house sitter’. You get a free exotic holiday just for looking after a couple of pooches somewhere or other in the sun.

Karil says, ‘why do all these things happen to you when you’re in Provence?’ She asks in her usual kind and caring way but I’m irritable. I’ve been irritable a lot during the last ten days. ‘All what things’, I demand? ‘

‘Well’, she continues, ‘you had to leave early in the summer because you were ill. Then there was all that business with Jack’.

‘That was SIX years ago’, I retort. Karil visibly shrinks and I’m ashamed at being so snappy. She’s made a valid point. Here I am in the South with Princess Bev and everything is literally falling apart. Fair play to Bev, she keeps writing. Me – zilch.

It starts at Marseille Airport which we hit in a torrential rainstorm. The terminal is bloody miles from the hire car joint. Actually, we can’t even find the hire car place because, in the cause of getting the cheapest deal, I have booked with a subsidiary of a subsidiary of an apparently non-existent company. In the offices of the third hire car place I try, a very wet old woman unexpectedly appears and attempts to engage me in conversation. Go away old woman. Suddenly, I realise that it’s Drenched Bev. We finally get a car but it’s only when Drenched Bev sees the size of the vehicle, and I clock the expression on her regal face, that I realise I’m in the company of royalty. This is why, when we finally reach the chicken-sitting place, I allow her to set up store in the Princess bedroom. I take the servants’ quarters.

You only need to read back at the last but one Weasel to be reminded of the terrible storm that night. No electricity, no water, no internet, terrified chickens, traumatised cats and so on. We get over it and press on with our holiday but, make no mistake, that isn’t the end. For a start, the princess has taken a chill so at least my tinnitus, which has reached a debilitating crescendo, is, marginally blocked by the sound of her incessant sniffing.

We make a good fist of the repairs and all is soon well with the world. For a whole enjoyable day. The outside lights are problematic as now they come on in the sun-filled daytime, whilst the night remains as black as the bible. Not to worry – we have a torch. The next morning, up early and refreshed, I go to the owners’ accommodation to feed the cat. I can’t get in. The lock has jammed. I do a Scarlett o’Hara – I’ll think about it tomorrow. However, that’s not good enough as the cat must be fed. WD40 is mentioned. I think this is a British thing: in the event of any crisis, the British only ever have two options – a nice cup of tea or a spot of WD40. I don’t currently have any WD40 in my handbag (later, I won’t even have a handbag). I coat the house key in Fairy Liquid. It works and, rather late in the day, the cat is fed. Apologetically, I give her a little extra as a treat.

The next day, in neurotic anticipation of troubles, the house key and the Fairy Liquid meet again and Princess and maid enter the cat’s domain quite easily. The cat has been rather sick. Princess Bev hates a mess so bravely scoops up the vomit in a tissue and pops it down the loo. (I hope they’re not reading this). Another nice day proceeds and the following morning, with suitably coated key, I’m off to see Poodle the cat. Sadly, the vomit filled loo is now blocked. Bev writes another thirty seven pages and I catch up on The Archers. Bev has a cup of tea and I open another bottle.

This is how it continues. Of course, things get much worse when our car is smashed into and my handbag is stolen. In fact, it goes downhill like an avalanche. We console ourselves by inviting everyone we know for the aperitif and drinking so much wine that we’re even more depressed the following morning. It was a grand cosmopolitan soiree, nonetheless. But I don’t think I’m going to apply to be a ‘trusted house sitter’ any time in the near future. Not without my princess.

This business of saying ‘it could’ve been worse’ is rubbish. It could only have been worse if we’d been murdered at the aqueduct which used to be one of my favourite places. It was TRICKY and we did really well to still be speaking at the end of it. We had no bushtucker trials – apart from the night the Princess cooked but we were severely challenged. And we challenged each other. Our lives are so different that the enormity of it all is unfathomable. Yesterday, we confided that we were both desperate to return to our own respective bubbles. And yet here was such fun.

The title of this weasel comes from a message that I received from someone unable to attend this morning’s festivities. I finally retired today so thanks for the sentiment which, if you’re a glass half full type of person, might be deemed quite optimistic in the face of old age. Actually, I’ve never fully understood that half a glass scenario: full or empty, it’s always the poor relation to a second bottle.

I think I should be sad. I’m not, although I did feel a tiny bit lonely later when they all cleared off to Wednesday afternoon training: ‘presentations in a nutshell’ or some such cryptically entitled event. ‘I envy you’, said the last of the departing in a slightly accusing voice; although I think this was more to do with the impending nutshell and accompanying parking problems rather than my escape.I suppose I will be sad when the enormity of my decision kicks in. Well, when I realise how many folk I will miss. My friends I mean; not the students.

I’ve been in the education game for thirty years and in the one-to-one business since 2000. Mostly, I’ve enjoyed working with the young people but, latterly, it’s all become too tricky. Some years ago, way before I was ever employed in Additional Learning Support, they gave me a young man to work with. Let’s call him Ahmed. It wasn’t his name but he was of the Muslim religion. His problems emanated from an horrific beating he’d received at school. In truth, I think it was more to do with colour than religion or culture. I was employed to help students overcome barriers to learning. Ahmed had a barrier to life. He spent all of our tutorials crying. He shouldn’t have been there so far from his family. He made such a huge impression and everyone loved him and wanted to wrap him up in tissue and repair his world. And we failed.

Since then, mentally and physically scarred young folk with the most dreadful problems have passed in and out of my office. They are traumatised by unspeakable things that happened to them before they ever arrived at university. They don’t eat or they eat too much. They don’t wash or they are obsessively clean. They have no friends because they can’t bear the thought of rejection. They cut themselves with blades and experts say ‘this is normal’. Well it’s not bloody normal and I am an educationalist and NOT a psychologist or psychiatrist or carer or anyone else dealing with lost causes. I don’t tell my family or friends what I’ve been up to because I’m ashamed that our institution, country, society puts the well-being of broken people into my hands. And that’s why I’m off.

So I went to meet an audiologist. You only have to look back over the weasels to understand the dreaded tinnitus. Paul, for we are already on first name terms, said he’d ‘assessed’ me from the moment he saw me in the waiting room. Apparently, the lost causes slump in their seats. I was upright and showing interest in ‘Escape to the Country’ on the TV; with handy sub-titles for those with ear problems. Well, given it was an audiology clinic, that would be all of us then. Mindfulness had been previously suggested. Paul ruled this out because he said I was already practising this by ignoring life. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, also previously suggested, was also eliminated as he said he could judge that I would not engage. This is a euphemism for ‘sneer’. I suggested that joining a tinnitus club might be depressing. Paul found this hilarious. He stuck a white noise aid in my ear. That’ll do then. Might’ve been useful earlier.

When we arrived, I was horrified. I said to them, ‘do we look as ancient as this lot?’ ‘Of course not’, they said reassuringly; but I knew they were lying. I mean, I was looking at those two and I could see they were old so surely I couldn’t be the only one whose looks are deceptive. It was like a care home outing – folk falling over each other’s crutches and walking sticks; lines of wheelchairs – get some wheels if you want the best view. The Civic Hall, located in what used to be Trowbridge Park and now comprising a few random trees in between Frankie and Benny’s and Tesco, was populated with what, in the pre-politically correct days we’d call the crippled and the lame; the confused and the doddery; the stumbling and the disheartened; the downright bloody old. Anyone, in fact, hoping for a miracle who’d eaten beforehand in case they were a bit short on the fishes and bread front and hadn’t arrived with someone called Lazarus. And it’s not a popular name on the Wiltshire/Somerset border.

He said, ‘look at the blonde at the bar. She’s not old’. I said, ‘she’s not even wearing her own hair – and she’s got someone else’s face on’.  On a good night, when it was Top Twenty at  the Town Hall, with acts ‘all the way from Bristol’, they might have had a Durex machine for the terminally optimistic, although I doubt it. Tonight, they’re all rushing towards the Tenna Ladies’ emergency refill.

We’re here to see a Roy Orbison tribute band. Barry, aka Roy, is wearing a kind of Alice band to which is attached a stand-up black quiff of sorts. You can’t see this unless he turns sideways so, front-on, it’s quite realistic. It doesn’t matter too much because Barry’s done his homework: he looks like Roy, he sings like Roy…he even, between numbers (as they used to say) talks like Roy. And he has a most excellent band who do a few turns whilst Roy/Barry disappears to have a few pints of cider. There’s a fat woman – always handy when looking for termination clues – who performs, illogically, as Cilla Black. You’ve never seen anyone look less like her nemesis, but she’s ok. Fortunately, they show some grainy footage of Cilla behind her. I forgot how young Cilla Black was. Easily done in this crowd.

During the break, I go outside for a cigarette. I don’t smoke but I like the idea. And anyway, I need some fresh air. I would say about 80% of the audience is out there puffing away. On my way back in, I mention to the child on the door that I’m surprised how may folk will make the second half given that they’re mostly pissed and challenged by trying to get four fags in their lungs in fifteen minutes.

Second half is even better than the first and there’s a fantastic finale with ‘I drove all night’. It’s hard to remember this song is quite that old – like him or not, it’s what my son would call ‘A TUNE’.

Naturally, the encore is Pretty Woman. Fair enough but this evening has reminded us of other classics and, I’m sorry to record, the tragedy of Roy: two dead wives and two sons killed in a fire. Whatever, the crowd is on its feet – well those that can are. The ladies in the row behind are crying, probably because they’ve missed the nine o clock Horlicks.

Here I am with two likely types discussing where to go on this gloriously sunny October morning. You can see that I’ve already clambered down from Corfe Castle with an apron full of handy twigs for a possible camp fire later on. It’s Apple Day today – something that I thought only existed as a fictional excuse for Jill to make even more fuss about  on The Archers. But, no, it really exists. More of that later.

Yesterday, I went to Arles, via the Chapelle St Gabrielle. How so, you ask? Or maybe not. In truth, I was in the MRI unit at the hospital. And let me tell you, this is an extraordinarily well-functioning department. One enters the joint with a great deal of trepidation at the given time and, barely is the Kindle fired up, than they come to collect you. Some horrid things happen, all dispensed with great kindness, and they throw you back out the door at exactly the time they promised.

I was going to write a lengthy tract about this experience but, when searching for a suitable picture, I discovered that folk all over the world have recorded their personal accounts of MRI in great detail. Without exception, they appear to have done this with a degree of magnanimity so that others facing enclosure will know what to expect. The MRI unit is a place unlike other hospital departments: patients don’t talk to each other. In fact, watery eyes are deliberately turned in other directions to avoid discourse. Anxiety rules the day, largely I believe, because you can hear all the machines clunking away; plus the randomly detached voices of radiologists behind unseen screens asking ‘are you still alright?’

She said to me, ‘consider your breathing and think about another place you’d like to be’, which is when I travelled to Arles. I’d asked for classical music but was fearful they might impose something demanding like Flight of the Valkyries. No worries: soothing notes oversaw my journey down that sunflower-lined road in the company of an American professor who has never previously journeyed that way. Mr Russell, I can’t wait for the reality.

So where to go today in the real world of autumnal Dorset? I head for Bridport Market and the ride across the Ridgeway is truly wonderful and worth any disappointment at the end. I would like to walk the Ridgeway: with its absolute profusion of long barrows and round barrows and standing stones and landscapes, all seemingly positioned only for the risings and settings of equinoctial suns. A few too many hills possibly for these old hips.

Bridport’s a funny old place and one that should probably only be visited in November or on market day. November, because that’s when they hold the famous literary festival and market day because there’s little else to see. I was alerted to a Town Crier announcing Apple Day. He shouted so loudly that it was difficult to discern any information apart from the word ‘cider’ which he repeated incessantly. I made friends with a wired hair terrier called Ted. There is an abundance of dogs in Bridport.

The nicest, but most frustrating, thing about Bridport  is the Town Hall, which is one of those places in which one discovers something that you feel you should have always known. The tourist information office is located on the ground floor of the Town Hall. Upstairs, they were holding a craft fair today so I paid a visit and passed some time talking with the (always) ladies who were displaying their wares. Then I looked up. The walls are covered in the most wonderful paintings by Fra Newbery, formerly of this parish. Until today, I had never heard of Fra Newbery and had never seen even the most mediocre copies of these fabulous paintings of life in nineteenth century Dorset. What an absolute treat for the eyes.

I accosted some elderly folk selling hand-made Christmas cards and asked them about the paintings. They knew little and were surprised I’d asked. Wouldn’t I like a pop-out Flight into Egypt depiction? No thanks – I’ve seen the Banksy version and it’s funnier. I travelled back down in Schindler’s lift – didn’t he have a list? – and demanded information from the tourist information people. They have every type of leaflet you could possibly want and naff all on what’s hanging on or off the walls upstairs.

Pffff. I purchased two lamb chops and a chump end from the local butcher and took myself off to Dorchester for an early lunch. By the way, all the pictures on this post, with the exception of the MRI scanner, were painted by Fra Newbery. And very nice they are too.

In case you’re not familiar, here’s Banksy’s version.

This has been quite a big week in my life. With a view to oft considered retirement, I finally gave notice of intention to leave my place of employment. Having received this shocking news, I fielded a number of questions. One or two of them were, frankly, silly if taken literally i.e. ‘but what will you do?’ I think we only need to look back at some of the weasels on this blog to answer that one: reading, writing, walking, crafts, foraging, visiting and so forth. For a start, four chickens and a cat called Poodle, who reside close to Avignon, are expecting me to rock up and look after their needs for a while at the end of November.

Further, there is stuff I don’t generally write about. For example, a new and long awaited grandchild arriving imminently in the Bromley environs. If I make an extra special effort to behave ‘normally’ for metropolitan parents, I might be allowed to visit and lend an eager hand or two. Further, I do quite a lot of proofreading for all sorts of people. For the last year, I’ve worked from a grand distance with an academic in Venice. To be fair, I once met Francesco in real life so I know how our links were forged. On the other hand, random and varied requests drop into my Hotmail account from folk I’ve never met and I’m left wondering how they ever found an eccentric in Dorset.

Not long ago, I proofed a piece of research sponsored by Microsoft on a virtual hand to be used in micro-surgery. How did that happen? And for two or three years, I was very big in Indonesia: it seemed that no-one could publish anything over there that hadn’t been overseen by yours truly. There was a ghastly incident when a couple of them came to Bournemouth and wanted to meet. Being a friendly type, I invited them to dinner chez moi. I wrote beforehand to enquire whether chicken was suitable and, on them replying in the affirmative, I added a touch of the old French cuisine by means of a coq au vin. I’d invested in some really good wine to drink which was subsequently turned down owing to the fact it was booze. No worries – all the more for mine host. The cooking wine was deemed ok as the alcohol had been baked away. However, I’d made the culinary mistake of adding bacon. Omelettes all round then.

So when people ask ‘what will you do?’ perhaps that’s not the end of the sentence. Perhaps they really mean, ‘what will you do for money?’ Good point. Panic? The better questions have been, ‘are you having a party?’ Or, for folk that know the answer to that, ‘where will the party be?’ I’ve worked in my current place of employment for sixteen years and I’ve already had two leaving parties. About nine years ago, I took the sabbatical year which, in truth, changed my life for ‘twas then that I found France and all my friends who still live there; or who, like dear Beverley, came home to remain important to me. On another occasion, they sacked me and I was forced into hateful exile on the road between Redruth and Penryn. Fortunately, I escaped back to Provence after six dreadful months. And even more fortuitously, my lovely current manager invited me back into the academic fold from whence I will soon depart.

And now there is news of a flood. Following Brexit, I awoke to an interminable beating in my right ear: pulsatile tinnitus. They say it’s due to a mobile blood vessel and advise ‘mindfulness’. I say it’s the result of an unexpected shock: the shock of discovering that, having spent years supporting people with ‘differences’, and maintaining an ethos of equality with all, discovering that at least half of the population are inordinately stupid. Last night, lightening lit up the house. Thunder crashed causing distress to anyone who doesn’t welcome a new sort of noise in the middle of the night. And there was quite a bit of rain.

My place of employment has been flooded to the extent that I must meet the last of new students in a long career in the boiler room. Doubtless, we will conduct our business by pencil and paper if not slate and chalk. Who cares – their needs remain paramount

I write continuously: it’s like a disease that I’ve been infected with since primary school days. It doesn’t matter if no-one reads it – well, it does really but, if you’re a scribe, you just keep going. Every now and then someone says they like what you’ve done. Mostly, they ignore you. Tim Pepin, to my knowledge, never read anything I’d put on paper. Nonetheless, two offices down from me at work, he somehow discovered that I wanted to publish a book about life in Provence. I have no idea how that happened. My job had little to do with his.

My book was nearly finished but, like everything else I’d written, I thought nothing would come of it. Tim took the project in hand – I didn’t even know it was a project. He formatted my book – what does that mean? He made a cover – extended online discussions regarding the apposite shade of green. Then, unexpectedly, he sent me an email to say the book was published on Amazon.

I wanted to pay him. He didn’t want money. I insisted and he asked for a Terry’s chocolate orange. I purchased a basket full of chocolate oranges and hid ten pound notes within. He was furious, but Felix had just been born so I was able to persuade him to buy something for his son.

I don’t know who Tim was. When you talk to others, he seems like some being that’s been temporarily placed amongst us to move things on. Today, I felt as if he’d arranged his own funeral. It was disturbing but with Tim, you never knew when it was time to be serious.