I keep telling myself that what I am writing is an account explaining my relationship with Tom, and everything else that goes with it. Of course, the everything else – which is actually the point of writing at all – is going to become much more difficult to write about very soon. But I find, unexpectedly, that I’m enjoying myself immensely. My days have the kind of purpose they haven’t had since I retired from the school. I’m including all sorts of things, too, which may not be of interest to you, Patrick. But I don’t care. I want to remember it all, for myself, as well as for you. And as I write, I wonder if I will ever have the courage to actually read this to you. That has always been my plan, but the closer I get to the everything else, the more unlikely this seems. You were particularly trying this morning, refusing to look at the television, even though I’d switched it from This Morning, which we both hate, to a rerun of As Time Goes By on BBC2. Don’t you like Dame Judi Dench?
