Emerging from his room in the early hours needing a pee, he asked: “What’s the name of the butcher?” The day before he’d told me that he’d heard his number plate read out over the tannoy in Tescos, only to be told that some kind soul had noticed his car boot had been left open in the car park and informed Customer Services. He’s done it before. He says its because he presses the automatic key fob in his pocket by mistake and that opens it. Last time it was just forgetting. He’d walked off leaving it wide open. He is sanguine about it. And, in the whole scheme of things it is nothing, nothing. As is the drips of pee on the floor when he doesn’t quite make it to the loo in time. It is age, ageing and doddery-ness and I should be more forgiving and kinder. I try. After the event when I’ve been snappy and scratchy, I am. But I will try harder. I promise.
