Blue is his favourite colour, although you wouldn't really know it; through most of his days, it's whatever's clean, and that most commonly turns out to be a concoction of black and khaki. As I slide the sweater over my head, I think of all the recent acquisitions for my closet: shades like cloudy Arctic ice, clear summer days, an English storm, the Delft harbour sky. I glance uncertainly in the mirror, and unlock and push back the door.

The pretty salesgirl turns around and spots me. "That looks great on you!" she enthuses. She's wearing a brown corduroy blazer, fitted pleasingly at the waist. "Blue is really your colour."

I touch the subtly tweedy wool; it hugs my body in a warm, comforting way. "Thanks." I smile. "I think so too."