‘You know you’re choosing solitude,’ my therapist said, more as a statement than a question, in a special session, a consultation I requested when she was no longer my therapist. I’d requested that session so she could assess my psychological state before I took the decisive step of moving out of what had once been my home. Her assessment was positive, as was that statement, more statement than question – though really it was a warning.

‘Yes,’ I answered, firmly and decisively. I knew the affair with Chl couldn’t last, because perhaps I myself couldn’t last. But I was prepared to take on my final solitude, which is what I’m going through now, though I never imagined it would be like this, filled with such ambiguity.

I felt as if that kind old woman was somehow giving me her blessing, and that she was somehow satisfied with the session, which was the true end of our therapy. My libido had managed to emerge and take notice of ‘an external object’ (my words, because she rarely used psychoanalytical language).