The day after my father died in February 2001, I was at my parents’ place, doing the things you do when someone has died. Making lists and cups of tea, buzzing on the energy of shock and the many tasks involved with organising funeral arrangements.

I happened to answer the telephone. It was my father’s GP calling, who said, among other things: ‘I told him that if he didn’t stop drinking he would die.’ It struck me as rather an odd way to offer condolences.