As always, she felt compelled to commentate. Telling me how the film reminded her of a married woman she once knew called Norma who met a man at Knutsford Service Station every Sunday while she was on the way to visit her mother. Norma was rumbled when her neighbour filled up with petrol at precisely the wrong moment. The boring story made me want to watch it even less. I fixed my vision directly on the TV. Engaging with her was lethal, or else the chattering would never stop.

She kicked off her slippers, lay on the sofa. I was on the floor at her feet. These were our usual positions. I could have used the armchair, but it was Dad’s, so I never did. No one did. It remained pristine as the sofa grew threadbare.

Ten minutes into the film, her speech became more sporadic, less lucid, and finally there was silence as she passed out.

To begin with, I thought Brief Encounter was so terrible it was hilarious. The way they talked, the corny expressions. But soon my giggles switched to a blank face, watching intently while mindlessly wolfing crisps and cheese. I hung on every word. Every tiny, tragic moment.

You know that last scene when they’re saying their goodbyes in the buffet? Knowing they wouldn’t see each other again. When he tells her how desperately he loves her?

And she replies with doe-eyed despair that she wants to die.

I turned to my mother, snoring, drunk, alone. Her delicate wrist touching the arm of the empty chair beside her. And for that moment I understood.

‘It’s a bit burnt around the edges.’ Dale had entered carrying in a tray, upon which I could see was a pizza, a glass of Coke and the glistening foil of a Tunnock’s Teacake. After placing the drink on the side cabinet and laying the tray on my duvet, he perched on the bed next to me.

‘Thank you. I like burnt, you know that.’ I carefully knocked off the ash from my fag and pinched the end, saving it for later.

‘What are you watching?’ he said.

‘I wasn’t . . . I was just . . .’ I turned off the TV and lifted a slice of pizza to my mouth, conscious of him hovering over me.

‘I’ll pop a bit more of this on, then, if it’s helping.’ He removed the tube of arnica from his pocket.

‘Oh . . . thank you, but you can leave it on the side – I’ll do it. You don’t want to be touching my horrible foot.’

‘No, it’s OK. You eat your pizza.’