to look at honestly and which were not what I had been telling people they were.
I had a routine. I was proud of the routine.
Twenty past one bus. In by two. Tea with Alby, chess, an hour and a half, home by five. Eleven Wednesdays between the May and the October without missing one, including the week I had a chest infection.
And what I actually did in that hour and a half, if I am counting, is talk.
I know, because he kept the notebook and because there is a page in it that is not about funerals at all.
It is a list, in pencil, of things he had been told by me. Pete’s job. The house. The kitchen at ten past seven. My sister. The bus. The quiet in the evenings. Pete’s brother and the business with the car in 2011.
He had written them
