I wake up naked, on the living room floor. Red House is on repeat. I have no idea how many times it’s played, but it’s worn a groove in my brain which means I’ll probably never listen to it again.

My clothes are folded carefully on the sofa. My CD’s have been rearranged. Twelve cans of beer have been stacked into an incomplete carnival target on the table, with scrunched-up photos of us scattered around it. Looks like I missed every time.

Wuss. Wimp. Loo-oo-oo-ser.

My phone beeps. Time to stagger to work. My head pounds and I go to the kitchen first, and down three glasses of water. Needs to be done if I’m to drive to work. The garden, through the kitchen window, is a part of the conspiracy against me. It’s a spring day, sunny and blue skied. I can’t remember the last time I saw one - probably spent it with you - and it makes me feel worse than the water did.

I shower. I throw up. I brush my teeth and dress, grab a packet of crisps and rush to the car. Going to be caught in the traffic, clock in late, and have to stay over to make up the time.

Half the things that are identifiably me are because of you. I stopped playing the guitar because it annoyed you. I did gardening, because it was expected of me. Now I can’t see a way back to who I was. I’m not sure which one is me anyway.

Traffic is a bitch - like you - keeps me waiting and then stabs me in the back. A twitter alert on my phone warns me that there’s speed trap just out of town. I slow to a crawl when I should be speeding ahead, while the cars behind me try to force me to go faster. Not having any of that, mate. You’ll see it as a favour eventually.

Work is shit. They don’t care. They see me as that slightly over-the-hill bloke who’s wife ran off with another man.

Tragic, in a funny kind of way. Tragi-comic Derek, in the shirt he ironed badly. Needs a woman to take charge, look after him. No bloody hope of that though.

What gets to me about Feminism is just how much culpability you can excuse yourself, because you’re so oppressed. Maybe thirty years ago, but not any more. We drifted apart, yeah, but isn’t that your fault as well. Your anger doesn’t make any sense. It’s unreasoning and nasty, a black hole draining any love from our universe. My memories of us are turning dark because of it. Instead of the one I loved, you’re just becoming the one who hurt me more than anyone I have ever met.

Dinner time comes, and the beer’s finally wearing off. A hang-over the size of a ferry terminal beaches onto my brain, and I beg off, citing the ‘dodgy curry’ I had last night. Mr Dolan doesn’t look too happy.

‘This is the third time in two weeks,’ he says. He’d look so good in horn-rimmed glasses, like Badger from Wind in the Willows. I haven’t told him this, because he had a sense-of-humour bypass in 1977, and hasn’t cracked a smile since.

I waver. I could stay, struggle through, and ultimately get no thanks for it, but would be off his radar for another couple of days. ‘I could take the Masterton file home with me,’ I offer weakly. He likes the idea of tele-working, makes him feel modern and with it, though he wouldn’t know an internet if he drove into one.

He sighs, nods, turns away. I wait until I’m out before feeling the hangover’s misery. My stomach is a stormy gastric sea, and my head’s got a tornado whizzing behind my eyes. The sun is too bright, the sky is a stomach-flipping blue. I stagger to the car and take a minute to gather some concentration.

This is all your fault. The way I’m acting. I’m grieving for you, but you aren’t dead, you’re just selfish and hateful and would rather see me dead.