In my hands I hold many fragments of time. Not all of them are mine⁠—some are my parents; others belong to my brother. The cover of this photo album is thick⁠—appearing to be padded if you glance quickly at it. A white square sits in the middle. If you were to run your hand over it you would stir up a layer of dust, some lifting to dance in the air while the rest sticks to the oil on your fingers.

The Cherry Orchard was Chekhov’s last play, dating from 1904, the year of his death. This lends the play a special poignancy; in any case, it concerns leave-takings, farewells to the scenes of the characters’ youth, Chekhov’s perennial evocations of the transience of human life.

There are five empty bottles next to the sofa. More stashed away in the bin, filling the small space completely. Wine. White. Red. Some Bucks Fizz. Champagne. Seeing them always made embers of blue fire come alive in my stomach. This fire isn’t one that keeps me warm at night.

'An inaugural lecture, how grand.' But of course he didn't mean it in that way. What he meant to say was grand, fantastic, smashing, cor blimey, what a lark! The lady professor is much too sensitive. And to be honest, she's been getting a little above herself since her elevation. Women do that.

What you are doing with your hands these days? Could one ever imagine that those parts of us that that earned our species definition, Homo faber, would one day become our main vulnerability? To be accurate though, it’s not the hands actually that is the problem, rather it’s touch.