‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Everything’s been all stirred up by going to that funeral, but it’ll settle down again soon.’

*

At home, Crunchie tried to jump out of her fur with delight when she saw me.

Out we went, for a quick turn in the woods near our house, and even though it was nearly seven, it wasn’t fully dark yet. The clocks would be going forward in two weeks’ time; spring was definitely on the way.

Back at the house, I got my iPad, flung myself on the couch and clicked straight onto Luxury Exchange to gaze at the pre-loved Chanel shoulder bag I was currently consumed by. My life had no room for something so ladylike—or so shockingly expensive—but I kept zooming in on the beautiful blue calfskin, so soft and squishy that I wanted to actually bite it.

From there I went to the RealReal and found two similar bags, then to Vestiaire, where there were dozens of little leather beauties, all of them way out of my price range. Clicking and scrolling, I was suspended in the happiest state of loved-up longing.

I was never not prone to obsessions but thanks to the discomfort churned up by Luke, I was extra keen for the dopamine hits generated by those beautiful bags.

At least I know what I’m doing, I told myself robustly. Then, All the same, I’d better stop. Before I actually buy one of them.

Because it wouldn’t make the longing go away. Paradoxically, it would make it worse.

I suffered from the Disease of More—if one of something was good, then ten was excellent. If a recipe said half a level teaspoon of cumin, I put in a heaped tablespoon; if I bought one unbearably wantable bag, I’d want twenty more immediately.

So I forced myself away from the calfskin and popped over to Vulture, looking for new Netflix recommendations, and from there to Mr Fothergill’s Flower Seeds, where I bought ten packets of hollyhocks when two would have done, then onto the Atlantic, mixing culture and commerce in a way that was profoundly enjoyable.

Yes, I knew I was actually enslaved to my device, yes, I had lost literal weeks of my life to it, when I could have learnt conversational Tagalog or trained as a humanist minister, but I always had such a lovely time that it was hard to mind.

Before bed, I lit a candle and set the timer on my phone—I was giving meditation yet another go. Surprisingly, considering all that was going on, my mind actually stilled. I was delighted. Then, ruining it, a memory popped up, vivid and complete, of a July afternoon, in Connemara, over a decade ago.

Ah, for God’s sake!

Not long after Brigit and Colm had moved into their spectacular glassy home, Luke and I had visited.