The morning after Christina died, I forced myself to get dressed and go to the town centre. The grief of losing my father was long and slow; somehow just below the surface like a dull ache; with Christina, the pain attacked in hard bursts, like the repeated blows of a knife. One moment I would be literally doubled up with sorrow and the next, I would find I could function for a short while. I was aware of how my brain kept turning the pain on and off, like a light-switch. During one numb and floaty period that at least gave me some respite, I drifted into a bookstore. I remember how my ankles wobbled as I approached the bookshelves and I also remember how I felt ‘outside of myself watching’...