Minutes into a twenty-four hour countdown to the first total eclipse of the sun in twenty-seven years, I was stewing in the shadows over another eclipse of a Bonnie Tyler heart-shaped variety. A decluttering exercise in the sweltering heat of the afternoon had led to unpacking a few jack-in-the-boxes of vintage trauma, and now evening was chasing the tale of the day.

Forty-eight hours earlier, I had been caught on camera musing on relationships. For while love comes quickly whatever you do, somewhere along its long, winding, and sometimes brutal path, it becomes a game of stick or twist, of being a hill to die on.

Shooting video for the feeds, in a vain attempt to entertain and engage a readership around my memoir of love, hope and recovery, a realisation dawned with crystal clarity. While selling this dystopian love story for the ages, I began to appreciate how cupid’s lessons never really end, but go on forever like a trick of the light.

And, pulling out the arrow shards from my prized organ with a mighty metaphorical pair of tweezers, musing in the darkness before the blackout, I wondered whether the total eclipse was all in my head.