But, disgraced as I am, I still pretend to have some manners, and would be happy to be proved wrong about the futility of this process, and so I say what I have tried to rehearse myself into believing on my way over.

‘I’d like some help to learn how to confront my difficulties rather than repress them through anger and desire.’

‘OK,’ you say and begin to write something down. ‘And you said on the phone that there was a particular incident after which you recog—’

‘Yes.’

‘In which you behaved in a way that shocked yourself?’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘And going back to your words, was this an act of anger or desire?’

‘Anger. Desire. Angry desire.’

You write something down and look at me like you’re assessing me, and so I assess you too. You’re about my age, straight hair with highlights, and I think you might be trying not to let a little bit of boredom or disappointment creep into your expression. It’s that word, desire, isn’t it? I know men’s desire is boring. Disappointing. People are disappointing. But bear with me. We’re not all disappointing in the simple ways. It’s not all lust. There are other reasons to decide to love someone.

*

One Sunday in June, I spent an unprecedented twelve pounds on a bottle of wine from a Tesco Metro, walked down to Dalston Central and made my way west on the Overground for lunch with Emily, Andrew and Sophie.

I had enjoyed Sophie’s recent opinion piece: I WAS CAUGHT SHOPLIFTING AND LEARNED THE DISGUSTING TRUTH OF MIDDLE-CLASS PRIVILEGE. In it she explained how she had been apprehended leaving Selfridges with a £500 dress in a foil-lined handbag, before being handed over to the police, who, eventually, ‘shamefully’ believed her story that she was researching a novel and let her off with a warning – ‘though how did they know to trust me? Would they have believed me if I’d been a person of colour or spoke with a strong South London accent?’

I hadn’t had the opportunity yet to ask Emily what Andrew thought of that.

*