I thank the man behind the counter and lift my tray. There is a smell of un-rinsed J Cloth that makes me twitch and think about grabbing every single cloth—the smell suggests more than one—throwing them in a bucket with Milton and water and leaving them there for at least an hour, even though the bleach could break down the fibers of the cloth, especially if they are a substandard brand.

I walk slowly with the tray, careful not to spill the tea, which has a not very hopeful gray pallor.

Iris is listening to Dad telling one of his stories, her face alive with interest, her head nodding along to all the details she has heard before, as if she has never heard them, as if this is the first time. She was always great with Dad. Great with all of them at the Society. Probably because of her experience with her own father. Although that was early-onset. A different animal altogether. “Probably the best one to get,” Iris said. “I’d liken it to being struck by lightning. It takes you by storm, but it’s over nice and quick.”

It took eighteen months. Iris requested a leave of absence from the hospital where she worked at the time, and moved back into her father’s house. They watched reruns of Neighbours every afternoon on UK Gold. Mr. Armstrong jerked awake when he heard the theme music, pointing at the screen every time his favorite actor, Jason Donovan, appeared. Iris never worked out why, but thought it might have something to do with Jason’s teeth; perfectly white and even and on display every time he smiled his frequent and lengthy smiles. She bought Jason’s first album around that time. “It was like putting a soother in a baby’s mouth,” she told me. “Especially for You” was her dad’s favorite. Iris’s too, in the end.

I didn’t know her then. Back when she didn’t have MS. Or hadn’t been diagnosed yet, at any rate, although Iris says that she always got pins and needles in her legs as a kid. Sparkles. That’s how she described them to her dad at the time. Sparkles in her legs. So maybe it was there all along. In the wings, as Kate might put it. Waiting for its cue to take center stage.

Her dad’s death. That might have been a cue. Anyway, that’s when she started experiencing symptoms. Turns she called them. Blurred vision, staggering, tripping, banging into the architraves of doors as if she’d suddenly lost touch with spatial awareness. And then the pain. Pain in her muscles, her joints, her limbs, her head. These turns didn’t happen all at the same time. They took turns and did not persist, so that, at first, Iris thought she was imagining them. Or she put it down to the tiredness she was feeling then. All the time. The doctor, vague, cited an autoimmune deficiency. Said it could be caused by stress which was natural, under the circumstances. With the recent death of her father and her new job—new career—as communications officer for the Alzheimer’s Society. He described these things as stressful. Iris disagreed. Her father dying was the least stressful bit of the whole process, she told me. “If he’d been a dog, he would have been put out of his misery long ago,” she said. I agreed with her. I’ve seen the liberties this disease takes.