I look around the Wetherspoons at Gatwick and wonder.

How many of these people are excited? Going on their hollies? Seeking a drop of sun?

It’s February.

Are they off for a swim? Smiling and laughing?

How many of them are running.

It’s February 7th.

It has been seven months and six days since she died.

I figured, ghosts can’t get on planes. She can’t follow me across the water. They’re scared of heights. If they weren’t they’d have left by now. She’d have left by now. Because why stick around and haunt me in the cold and grey, when she could enjoy her afterlife in Bali?