There are, on average – depending on the briskness of the wind or the lethargy in my bones – 156 steps between my apartment building and my nearest laundromat. When the air is summer-thick, I take smaller steps and let my feet go slow. But now that it’s colder, I can make it in 150 easy, urgently looking to get back inside. (Side note: I can’t believe the number of people who live in the US, the land of fetishised convenience, without an in-house washing machine.)

I started counting things in childhood. I still remember how many steps it took to get to the bathroom from my bedroom: five (fewer in the middle of the night). I recall the number of rungs on my bunk bed in boarding school (three). I know there are 48 stairs from the ground floor to the fourth floor of my building, plus an extra six steps to my front door. I count when I walk to the shops, to the subway station, to the post office. Noting the exact number of steps between the lift and my desk (61, on average) is pointless, but I do it anyway. It’s something between compulsion and comfort. Counting is a form of quiet therapy; at the very least, a sort of breathing exercise. It’s Lamaze without a bump.

Right now, I’m counting in another unit: days. I’ve booked a flight home to England for Christmas and sent out the requests for people’s time (including my dentist). Counting these days, after another year away from home, is therapeutic. So much has changed. But there will still be 14 stairs between my sister’s front door and her living room, and three steps between her kettle and the cupboard with the mugs.