The kettle starts to make its almost-boiling noise, I click it off before it starts to roar and get one of Mum’s latest fruit infusions from her jar, put it in the mug (looping the bag label’s string through the handle, like Dad taught me) and pour on the water, then put the kettle back on to boil for my English Breakfast.

As I clink and potter around with teaspoons, soggy teabags and milk, Mum stands leaning against the sideboard, her eyes open but registering nothing. There’s a background hum from the microwave, its orange light behind Mum’s head like a strange halo.

‘There you go, Mum.’ I place her mug next to her, far enough away from her elbow that, if she jerks, she won’t knock it over.

‘What? Oh, thanks love.’ She did jerk, as I thought. The mug remains safe.

But when the microwave pings, Mum spins too fast and her hand knocks the mug off the sideboard onto the floor where it explodes in a bomb of steam and china. I go straight for the kitchen towel as she jumps out of the spray, wincing as it splashes her legs. I throw sheet after sheet of kitchen towel on the floor and Mum dabs them around with the end of her shoes until we’ve created something like a dam around the worst of the spill. Then I get the dustpan and brush from under the sink and gather up the tiny fingernails of white china that are all over the floor, empty them inside the dam, then use the small, purple brush to slowly make the dam smaller, mopping up the water and gathering the broken crockery together before emptying it all from the dustpan into an empty cereal box that was waiting on the side to be recycled. The whole thing happens in silence and takes less than a minute.

When I get back in from putting the cereal box – still steaming – straight in the outside bin, Mum is sitting at the table.

‘Another tea?’

‘Thanks love.’ She offers a weak smile. She looks at the trail of footprints my wet socks have brought in from outside. ‘Oh goodness Josh, your feet! Did you hurt yourself?’

‘No Mum, I’m OK.’

‘That was so stupid of me. I can’t even look after myself this evening and now you’re ripping your feet to shreds because of me.’

‘Mum, I’m fine. Don’t worry.’

‘It’s ridiculous Josh, how incapable your mother is. I’m sorry. I really am.’

‘Forget about it Mum. I’ll make you another cup.’

As we talk, I take two plates from the cupboard and empty the contents of the microwave containers onto them. Chicken jalfrezi. The kettle is still hot enough for Mum’s tea, and I bring it to the table with her plate, then go back for my plate and the cutlery.