And, I remember, I need knickers. And socks. And a change of clothes. And pajamas and a toothbrush. And a hairbrush.

Oh, and some sterling.

Which, for some reason, reminds me that I need a plug adaptor.

For France.

If we ever get to France.

Which we probably won’t. Because surely Iris will come to her senses before then.

I settle Dad in front of the telly, look for some sports or wildlife program, or maybe a western. I happen upon Ronnie O’Sullivan playing snooker against Mark Selby in the Crucible. Dad immediately straightens in the armchair, folds his arms across his chest. “Quarter-ball on the green,” he says, nodding towards the screen.

He manages to retain vocabulary for certain things. Snooker is one of those things. A testament perhaps to his collection of trophies and medals that once lined the shelves of my parents’ “good” room, and now fill an enormous cardboard box in a dark corner of my attic.

Ronnie drapes himself along the edge of the table, the cue sliding through the V between his thumb and finger, towards the white ball. He pots the green. “That’s how it’s done, Ronnie, my boy,” Dad tells him.

“I’ll be back in a minute, Dad,” I say, moving towards the door.

“Sure thing, love,” he says, without lifting his eyes from the screen.

Iris is in one of the twin beds in the smaller of the two bedrooms. In her Women’s Mini-Marathon T-shirt which she ran for the Alzheimer’s Society last year.

It was only twelve months ago that Iris ran ten kilometers and it didn’t cost her a thought.

Now she’s in bed in the middle of the afternoon. “What are you doing?” I say.

“I’m having a rest.”

“You never have rests.” I realize my tone could be described as accusatory. It’s like she’s standing on a soapbox, proclaiming the fact of her MS to anyone who will listen. It’s like she’s rubbing it in my face.

“I often have rests,” Iris says. “It’s just that I have them in my own house so you don’t see me.”

“Well, you never say that you’re having rests in your own house.”

“I know you’re angry with me,” Iris says. “I get it.”

“Why would I be angry with you?”

“Because of this.” Iris gestures around the bare room. “This...situation.”

“Listen,” I say. “I just came in to let you know that I’m going shopping. I wondered if you need anything?”

Iris shakes her head. “No. Thanks. Where are you going shopping? I didn’t see a Marks & Spencer around here.” She grins. We both know how dependent I am on Marks & Spencer. But I can’t help it. It’s just such a...comfortable shopping experience. I know where everything is, and it’s not too expensive, and the quality is reliable, and yes, the clothes mightn’t make you stand out in a crowd, but that’s not what I’m aiming for, when I dress myself every morning.

“You can leave your dad here,” Iris says. “I’ll keep an ear out for him.”