Office
Conduct a final but cursory audit of the stationery cupboard. Ignore the tumble of staplers and erasers, the torn box of fluted paperclips, the lined pads waiting for words. Take a last tea-break with Patsy from Payroll and thank her for three decades of deductions accuracy. Confess you’ve never forgotten holding her hips in the conga at that long-ago departmental party.

Shed 
Run your fingers along your workbench, gouged but smooth, before giving the chuck of your drill a dribble of 3-in-1. Honour your pliers and screwdrivers, your coach bolts and six-inch nails, your tins of Danish oil and jam jars of everything. Sweep the sawdusty floor and lock the door behind you.

Lounge
Clear your shelves for the charity shop, your Shakespeare sonnets and big Ken Folletts, the Ulysses you’ve never read. Linger over your CDs and few LPs, your Bob Dylans and Duran Durans, your Van the Man and Best of The Carpenters. Pull out your Elvis Costello, with its signature on the back, all the way from Nantwich Civic Hall, November 1981.

Spinney
Prise your wedding photo from its frame on the sideboard and slip it into your pocket. Lace your seven-league boots and walk awhile. Stand and glory in the song of the lark, thank the bluebells for their faithfulness, rest on a tuffet until a badger scurries by. Take out your photo, press it to your lips, and whisper to your wife that you’ll see her soon.