But here’s the thing: shock and disbelief don’t simply disappear overnight. Worse still, you don’t want to disappoint or burden anyone by admitting you’re still not over it. That last weekend you weren’t really busy; you just couldn’t face getting dressed. That the future, which used to seem so secure, now scares the living daylights out of you.

So you go quiet. Delete all those social-media apps on your phone. Quit your job and move hundreds of miles to try to rebuild your life. Because I could cry in my pyjamas, wake up in the middle of the night having a panic attack and celebrate my birthday surrounded only by packing boxes, but one thing I was certain of: I hadn’t got this far to give up now.

‘That’ll be three hundred and fifty-seven pounds, eighty pence.’

‘How much?’ I feel myself blanch.

Crikey. It would actually have been a lot cheaper to go gadding about Bali. I dig out my credit card. That reminds me: I must drive into town and put an ad in the main newsagent’s about tutoring work. At this rate, I’m going to be running low on savings sooner rather than later.

Wordlessly the sales assistant turns the credit-card machine towards me and taps at the digital display with her fingernail. I notice she has impressively long, bright orange fingernails. I curl my own, split and broken from ripping up underlay, into the palms of my hands to hide them.

I peer at the total.

‘Right, yes,’ I nod, though I can’t see a thing. I’ve forgotten my reading glasses. I insert my credit card and punch in my code. It must be accepted, as a long receipt spews out. She hands it to me.

‘Thanks for shopping with us today.’

‘Thanks.’ I smile, but she’s already lifted up the divider and moved on to the next customer: an old man with a potted hyacinth. It begins making its way down the conveyor belt towards my items and, hastily finishing packing, I lift my bags into the trolley and head briskly for the exit.

Outside, the skies have turned grey and sullen and the temperature has dropped. February in London was never this cold. Here it gets into your bones. Putting on my gloves and hat, I begin pushing the trolley towards the car park. I’ve driven to a retail estate on the edge of town. I extended the agreement on the rental car for a couple of weeks, but I’ve got to return it soon as it’s costing a small fortune.

‘Would you like to make a donation?’

I pass a girl with a collecting box. She’s wearing a hi-vis vest with some kind of slogan, but I don’t read it.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t have any change.’

It’s the standard answer. All I can think about is getting in the car and putting on the heater.

‘Even if it’s just a few pence, every little helps.’ She smiles. She has pink hair and a silver nose ring. She’s a lot younger than I first thought. Probably only a teenager. I notice she’s not wearing gloves and is pulling down the sleeves of her sweatshirt, trying to warm her fingers, which are red-raw with the cold.