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And what I’m trying to do is point out that everything about you is wrong – from the idiotic ambition to be a writer that has filled your overactive imagination, right down to those ridiculous embossed cowboy boots. She pauses for breath – which is a little pointless.

Then she’s back to hurling words like bunches of thistles at me. She rolls her eyes and says she’s looked after herself, her hair is longer, redder and curlier. She’s even lost some wrinkles. But I can’t even be bothered to shave more than once a week.

She cocks her head on one side, green eyes narrowing; the harbinger of question time. She asks, why didn’t you remarry? You are as lonely as hell and it galls me, after all I taught you, that you are still incapable of looking after yourself.

Wow! She’s actually gone quiet; she really wants an answer. God she is gorgeous… And she’s pouting! She’s done that, off and on, since we were skinny teenagers and I kept getting better marks in geology. Right, an answer. Hang on my love, you know I’ve always been slow with words. Remember those notes I wrote, booking time to speak, asking you to stop for a moment?

Here goes then, from the heart. I say, I’m still in love with you and I’m not lonely. For someone who’s been dead for four years, you have a remarkable capacity for still being here.

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©Gary Bonn 2011