My father died suddenly and I’m still working my way through the half block of cheese that I rescued from his fridge. After a hastily organised funeral where I delivered a eulogy too long for the warm afternoon, he was cremated. My brother collected his ashes and his favourite T-shirt.

But his cheese lives on. Still in its torn packet, with one of Dad’s trademark purple elastic bands keeping it sealed, it has evolved into something other than food, and I refuse to imagine the meal when I finish it. My logic being that if it exists then so, somehow, does my dad.

I had barely arrived in Japan when a police officer phoned to tell me that he’d died.

Before ringing, officers had turned up at my flat, then at my brother’s house, to break the news gently. My children and I had just left a Buddhist temple dusted with snow, and they were busily negotiating our next destination.

One wanted to visit Kyoto market for lunch. And the other more op shops to hunt for more sneakers. Neither of them seemed to be winning and........

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