Today I saw a guy in colourful shoes with some striped, coloured socks and I thought of us always discussing extravagantly-coloured old men and how I would look like them when I get older. You always laughed and told me it’d look good on me. I miss those moments. Every time I take the socks you (or, more appropriately, your mother, to whom you talked about me) gave me, it feels good. I put them on on Sunday and I’m glad, they reminded me of you.

Hanging on is much more difficult than giving up. I always give up, always. It’s easier to accept that one is worth nothing (and secretly think we might be worth a lot but nobody knows) than to be told that we are worth nothing. I fear the latter so much that I often just give up before anybody could tell me off. Maybe it’s time that I learn to believe in myself.