Later, up in his eyrie, he worked late into the night. He wrote a piece about Bon Iver for Uncut, another for the Quietus about a new Bunnymen album slated for the end of the year. He made a start on the sleeve notes for a remastered album by The Clash, rehashed an interview with Ian McCulloch for the Guardian, read his piece on Pitchfork about the top 50 indie albums of 2012, replied to nine emails, then took a call from a journalist on Rolling Stone, who wanted his thoughts for a piece about Hunter S. Thompson. Katelin, watching television downstairs, then going to bed at half past ten, was unaware of his endeavours. This was how it was. This was the kernel of the problem. Katelin had no real idea what he did. It was his world, not hers, and ne’er the twain would meet. He’d realised many years ago that Katelin had always thought the music writing would give way to … oh, something more respectable, she didn’t know what exactly, but something less sketchy than his present existence. Nothing Dan had ever done or said had encouraged her in these beliefs, it was just the way of the world in her view, the natural progression of things, and she couldn’t understand why all those years of experience didn’t amount to a proper job in an office, rather than merely more of the same. He knew what he was doing though, he always had, and hadn’t everything worked out? He’d written the books he wanted to write, he’d made some money, and still did, one way or another. Granted, it had its frustrations; he spent at least a day a week chasing up unpaid invoices, and the rate for those online pieces was pitiful, but the money always rolled in from somewhere, and he’d never, in all his working life, had a bad day at the office. Just, now and again, a bad day at home.

He picked up his phone, checked the time. It was half past two. As ever, the screen was a bunfight, a string of people vying for his attention, but only one caught his eye. Ali Connor sent you a direct message. He must, he really must, switch off these Twitter notifications, the very last thing he needed was Katelin catching sight of that name on his screen, at this delicate point in their lives together. But she was fast asleep, and for now, he just navigated his way swiftly to Ali’s message and saw that she hadn’t answered his bombardment of musical artillery with a link to a song, but instead had sent only a line, a lyric he supposed, and one he recognised, yet couldn’t quite place: And I feel your warmth and it feels like home.