At this point, all but one of my closest friends were in relationships. Those who were too busy to meet up on Sundays often lamented their lack of time. They longed for more hours in the day. They had toddlers’ party bags to fill, in-laws to entertain, Sunday roasts to assemble. They had less time, so they appreciated it more; I had too much of it to fill, so appreciated it less. I knew time was a precious thing to be used more productively: I was alive, I could do anything, write, volunteer, start yoga, go to a gallery, a pottery class, somewhere I might make new friends. I resented time for
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