Death, especially when compounded by shock, is a thing that forces wild reactions. There is no predicting how it will affect us, especially when it’s complicated by fame and art. At that point, mourning suddenly becomes communal, and you might find yourself crying in public, as I did when I heard about Prince’s death. It’s been one year. I miss him still.

Prince was, for me, one of the most exciting sights I’d laid eyes on. Have you ever taken the time to look at his face? It was stunning: those big, fawn-like eyes, seemingly dancing with mischief; that nose – button-like in his youth and more hawkish with age; that mouth, almost always quirked in a sardonic, knowing smile. Prince always appeared aware of how unique he was; he knew he was special and he loved it. His songwriting and performances were imbued with that quality: each song was a gift, his lyrics equal parts sexy, witty, moving, sly and outrageous. Prince was a gateway into a more fluid, more adult world, where men (and women!) wore whatever the hell they wanted, and didn’t apologise.

He was funny (his 2014 guest appearance on New Girl, sending up his own eccentric image, made me laugh so hard), principled about artists’ rights and discreetly generous to a range of causes, too.

Above all, though, it’s his voice I miss. Its range was vast: a thrilling falsetto came as naturally as a deep baritone. His music lit up my life. My favourite today is If I Was Your Girlfriend, but that could change at any time. Prince wouldn’t mind. He was changeable, too, sometimes bad-tempered with interviewers, other times as sweet as pie. It’s what made him so damn compelling.