Sitting at a hotel bar drinking a glass of expensive whiskey on your own is a pretty miserable ending to a pretty miserable day. There is no one to taste the peat, see the view of Joburg or tell about the loneliness that crept up on me today.

I navigate to the contacts on my phone, knowing full well that there is no one left to call. I consider ordering another whiskey, but don’t even raise my head. I think, as I have done on many nights before this one, about smoking the cigar I’ve been carrying around for two years. I do nothing.

And for a few minutes I dredge up the excessive dinners, drunken parties and exclusive strip clubs of a past life, but I return, as I always do, to the one thing of importance. Fergie.