Post addressed to Jonathan Fitch came through my letter-box, and that was who I was. I had a National Insurance number and an account at Lloyds; I had a shoe size and a blood type and a bunch of keys. I was twenty-eight years old and not too bad looking; in the past, when things came to an end with a woman, I’d always been able to find someone new. But now that Serafina was gone I realised too late that I was possessed by her – I had no self to offer anyone else. The house of my self is built on a rock of panic. Now the house was gone and only the panic remained.