So, the Humanist called tonight. Her name is Lovejoy. That would make Gail happy as she was a huge fan of Ian McShane. She didn’t need to try and sell me her services; as soon as she told me her name I knew she was going to do it.

An early appearance for the type of dark humour that sustains you. Also the first vague indicator of those little coincidences that you like to attribute more too. The first growing hope that, perhaps despite what you’ve said your whole life, there might be something else after. This will return and return as you try to make sense of something that nobody has ever made sense of.