I can picture Jack laughing at me, mockingly taking a stance like a tough guy, a drug dealer, a money launderer. But I’m only trying to rationalise the situation. In London, the traffic moves no faster than twenty miles an hour. There’s speed cameras everywhere.

‘How the fuck did a van hit you going more than fifty?’ I yell. ‘How? Why? I waited thirty-six years to meet you!’

Which isn’t completely true. Yeah, I’m thirty-six, but I didn’t grow up dreaming about Mr Right and weddings. No, that was my brother. It was cruel that he’d had to grow up in a world where although he wanted those things, some law told him they weren’t for him. Honestly, I’d much preferred flatmates to boyfriends. Impromptu parties, hangovers with Domino’s and marathons of Friends. Bingeing on 24 after work shat all over an awkward date with some guy I could only have sex with if I got bladdered.

But when I hit thirty, flatmates became engaged, or property owners, or parents. Some scored the treble. I progressed to my own flat, embracing the true value of space. I loved my framed posters of The Sound of Music and Singin’ in the Rain hanging up in whatever room I desired, and my bulging mess of a wardrobe that no fucker was going to judge me for. Nobody was stealing my Brie. I only had myself to blame if I ran out of loo roll. Loneliness, however, creeps in when you least expect it. Everybody wants somebody, as the song goes. Dating seemed like a necessity, but a labouring chore. Until Jack. And it was easy. Easy like Sunday morning. Ye-ahh, ye-ahh …

I’m standing with two pieces of Ikea wood in my hands.

What the fuck am I doing?

Only a matter of weeks ago, I moved in with my new boyfriend. This fact cannot be suddenly wiped out. Nothing just stops, no matter how hard a van hits it. I found a pair of his dirty undies beneath one of my Converse today, for God’s sake. Do I wash them? What the hell are you supposed to do with the dead’s dirty undies?

The flat looks a mess.

The bins are overflowing, uneaten bananas are blackened and smelling, ripped cardboard and loose screws are taking over the hallway. The only corner of serenity is our bed. The pillows are plumped and the sheets are so straight – good enough for a hotel penthouse suite – that I’ve been wondering whether Trish (or John) ran the iron over them before they left. Needless to say, I haven’t been sleeping in our bed, because I haven’t really been sleeping. The sofa has more appeal: the red throw, the Rudolf cushion, the sense of never ending a day or starting a new one.

Right, where’s that other screw?