It was the candle shop that was dying today. Two women in their middle years who had moved into the mews six months ago with dreams of selling hand-crafted scented candles were now loading a Nissan Micra with boxes of unsold stock. One of them was in tears and the other looked stunned that their dream had died before the end of a six-month lease. Our little corner of the city was no longer a vibrant hub for quirky one-off shops and plucky start-ups. These days the mews was a small business graveyard. With the candle shop gone, only The Vinyl Countdown and Angel Eyes remained.

‘The good news for you and me,’ Wiggy from The Vinyl Countdown said, scratching thoughtfully under his Led Zeppelin US Tour 1975 T-shirt, ‘is that people will always need love and music.’

If only, I thought.

‘How’s Christian getting on with Weird Scenes Inside the Gold Mine?’ Wiggy asked.

‘He wants to write something about it.’

Wiggy’s eyes lit up. He had always been a fan of Christian’s music journalism. ‘Man, he should. What was it they said about The Doors? Three great musicians fronted by a genius.’

‘But I don’t know who would print it, Wiggy,’ I said. ‘That old world of the inky weekly music press doesn’t exist any more.’

Wiggy and I hugged the candle ladies and then watched them drive away. As they left, a group of teenagers drifted into the mews, the smell of their weed and resentment drifting down to us. This was something new, too, the mews as a place for bored youth to hang out.

‘It’s such a great album,’ Wiggy muttered to himself, and went back inside his shop, humming ‘When the Music’s Over’ to himself.

I sat at my desk, scrolling through the smiling, hopeful faces of the lonely as Skyla stood watching the kids at the end of the mews. There seemed to be more of them now.

‘Did you see it?’ Skyla said. ‘Mary’s latest Accidental Dater post?’

I shook my head. Preoccupied by thoughts of my father, I tended to avoid social media these days. Call it cowardice, call it a defence mechanism, but reading the snide and frequently obscene comments under our Angel Eyes Twitter and Instagram postings felt like inserting my head in someone else’s sewer.

‘You should read this one,’ Skyla said. Then she hesitated. ‘I’m worried about her, Tara. This one feels like it could be the last.’

So I sat in front of my screen, and I read about my old friend’s latest adventure in the world of online dating.

Mr Fat Shaming met through Tinder.

I smiled to myself. Tinder! So Mary had finally given up on us.

Mr Fat Shaming was disappointed from the moment he saw me. His face fell. Then there was the flicker of anger. As if he had been cheated. As if I had been lying. As if he had been duped. But I just wanted to look nice in my profile picture. That’s all. I didn’t want to trick anyone, or mislead them, or lie. I just wanted to look nice, I wanted to look like someone who might be worth loving. Is that so much to ask? So now I sit in a hot bath in my crappy little flat, wondering if I would not be better off alone and if the world would be better off without me.