Yes, but it’s not the same as a fucking mobile phone, is it? It’s got fuck all to do with it. I’m not fifteen years of age. I give the booklet a shake, stretch my arms out again, over my head, holding it up high. The key to a healthy recovery, it says, is in restoring one’s routine. Keeping busy helps: you should feel blessed if you’re working a practical job. I do; there’s always something that needs doing, someone in need of help. But what about the holes in the texture? What about the nights, for example? The dreams.

1. Do not blame yourself for the things that cause you grief: any sudden change may trigger the grieving process and this is out of your control.

2. Recovery takes the time it takes: of course, a broken mobile phone will have less of a lasting impact than a serious traumatic event, but grieving time is not quantifiable.

3. Not everybody goes through the phases in order: some subjects jump between phases or go through the same cycle several times.

4. You’re allowed to grieve.

Recovery takes the time it takes: I still have trouble sleeping. I’m a restless sleeper – but it was always that way with me. Nights are difficult but some things will always be difficult. The booklet agrees. My arms are feeling sore, my spine aches from lying here. I grasp the side of the couch and pull myself to my feet.

I know I have to retake possession of the flat, but I don’t know where to start. I’m here, standing, the booklet in my right hand. I shuffle on the spot, like a character in a shooter videogame, paused by the player who wants to take a piss or make a cup of tea. Last year, Neil developed a soft spot for these games. The more gruesome the better, which seemed incongruous with his newly adopted spiritual lifestyle. The looping noise when he paused them irritated me so much that I’d bring the mug to him before he asked. (‘Pretty sure that’s not Buddhist,’ I remember saying. ‘Every man must reconcile himself with his most basic instincts. That’s what Buddhism is all about, actually.’)

I look around. I scan each open door in our small flat. Woollen throws on the sofa, the wheatgrass on the windowsill already going dry. Deflated cushions on the floor, mottled with incense ash, spice bottles fighting for space on the rack. The juice-maker bulging obscene and root-like from the darkened kitchen, its shadow spilling on to the living room floorboards. I’ve been burning his candles constantly but the house still retains its stale air.

The acronym TEAR was devised by Harvard professor J. William Worden to provide grief professionals with a clear outline of the steps that must be undertaken as part of therapy work: