I moved in with my boyfriend a year ago and it's still a surprise to wake up and not be alone. I don't mean this as a Mills and Boon hyperbole. I mean physically, tangibly, literally: not alone. Another person in the vicinity. Another person, all the time. Most of the time, this is a delicious, squidgy thing, full of red lightbulbs, baked bread and duck-down duvets. But it's been useless for my ability to write. In the . . .

I blame my parents for my early hatred of solitude. With two working parents, I was an unusual kid in the early seventies; if I was ill there was little prospect of either of them being at home to look after me. Aged five, I was left alone with a stinking cold and strict instructions not to answer the door to anyone. The silence deafened me. It seemed . . .