I didn’t really know what to expect from today.

My sorties to the bereavement group didn’t really have any purpose: a stupid thought I had after two glasses of wine. .

I just wanted the people there to know that I empathised with them; that there was someone there who they could talk to. I couldn’t not try and help.

As ever, Leonie was right. I couldn’t help these people. How could I?

I didn’t understand what they were going through. I’m scared for the day when Fat Cat pops his clogs. How am I going to empathise with anyone who’s been through what these people have experienced?

Today, I found out how I could help.

I had met James – one of the regulars from the group – completely by accident. Coincidence to the nth degree. We met for a coffee this afternoon.

Naturally, I lost all power of conversation. Talk to Molly, talk to Leonie (actually don’t. She’ll be mean) but, I’m never lost for words. In this busy coffee shop in the Northern Quarter, I ran out of vowels.

I had so much to say. I wrote a list of questions I wanted to ask.

The only thing I could think to ask was if he remembered to bring an umbrella to work.

And then, the list didn’t matter any more.

It’s unusual for anyone to actually have a conversation with me. Normally, I’m desperate to throw stories at people: Tell them about my day, my week and my month. I try so hard to share every tale I have in my short-term memory.

With this man, I just sat back and listened. I hung on every word he said. His stories were so much more interesting than anything I could have ever said.

And I listened. When it was over, I snook back into the cafe and wrote down everything I could remember on an old receipt, in case I ever see him again.

I hope he texts me back.