The problem was your father didn’t believe me. Even after I showed him the records I had made whilst he slept he still didn’t believe me; he said they proved nothing. In the end, it didn’t matter what I said or what I showed him, he simply refused to believe me. He kept thinking I was trying to console him, playing modest. Of course, it was hard to believe. Thinking of it now, it seems more unreal than real, and to the layman it would certainly be unbelievable. But over those following days, I kept regretting that I had never made an actual recording of his sleep, or the mumbling he had done. If I had, perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to say anything else. I kept thinking how making a recording would have been as easy as lifting a finger. The only problem was your father thought of this as well, and so for him, the fact that I didn’t have a recording meant that my story was false. I just didn’t really think of it at the time. That’s often how things are. Who could have known that at that time, in order for your father to receive the proper honours, I would need to be pushed aside; that we couldn’t both share the acclaim? And yet, I felt that yielding was much better than fighting over it. Wouldn’t you agree?

No, things weren’t that simple.