Over Christmas, we wrote a draft of your will. We read the instructions to phrase it exactly, legally, and you divided your possessions up carefully, thinking what everyone wants. We didn’t have witnesses, much, so we never wrote up in best, and you realised you had little left anyone wanted and, though it’s a joke, the list is seriously it: the loose change on the floor of your flat for Amber, the books you’re in, your Woody Allen collection for me. At the top, you named me executor and I asked if that was okay, and you said no-one’s surprised, nobody would be. And this was one on a list of eight things we say we’ll do but don’t, things we think will be funny but, bravado aside, it turns out I don’t love to think of you dead.