The winter wind hitting your exposed skin feels sore; the two collide to create a fissure on the plain of your neck like brittle land. Your hands are red and swollen, ankles charred from the chill.

When she was a little over seven years old, her mother, Mrs Roy, found a family who could take care of her when Mrs Roy was overwhelmed with running a one-of-a-kind school in Kottayam, in the southern state of Kerala, India. The chosen family lived in a big, airy house. The problem, however, was the “respected” senior who was the patriarch-grandfather.

My grandparents’ house had a large garden which bordered three-quarters of the property. The walls were painted a dark, earth green to blend in with all the plants, trees, and flower bushes they had planted and tended to over the years.

There is a very particular shade of blue that is created by shadows left when sunlight reflects off snow. Luminous and cold, tinged with white light, it catches in drifts and at the base of trees.

The first time I listened to Lily Allen’s latest album, West End Girl, I already knew what it was about. My eyes had skimmed over the headlines of articles revisiting her Architectural Digest tour, the ethics of an open marriage and, of course, the breakdown of her marriage with the tabloid-branded “sex addict” David Harbour.