I said, ‘To be honest, I can’t do this anymore.’ Her question had been ‘How are you?’

‘I can’t do it, I’m sorry.’ I said, staring at the webcam, I couldn’t do business as usual, I couldn’t be my LinkedIn profile. ‘It’s not you,’ I added, hoping she’d understand.

‘Are you getting any support for your mental health?’ she asked, thoughtfully. I answered with a short history, then we said goodbye and good luck and I logged out of Skype.

I headed for The Devil’s Dyke, on foot. I’d said I was going to take a long walk. I wanted to get away from myself. I couldn’t do it. Hove Park, then up and through overlooked, red-brick Hangleton where swifts were seeking a home. Access Land (‘Within the meaning’ — a board announces — ‘of the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000). This late in spring it’s wreathed in the cream of cow parsley and may blossom.

A foot bridge across the bypass, onto the old railway track, beloved of dogs and their walkers and lads on off-road trail bikes. Birdsong mingled with the traffic noise; a pair of whitethroat scooped from thorn bush to thorn bush, hidden again. At a bench I knew I could go no farther. I couldn’t do it. How could such scrawny legs be so heavy, a windless chest weigh so much?

On my way back a tiny viridescent lizard skimmed across the path, as dainty as a shadow.