You have filled the year. The casual-seeming phone call from my sister, “What are you doing this weekend?” I had a train ticket for the Lakes for a wedding I didn’t have the heart to attend. In the end, another rail journey took me north, not so far, to the heart of England. In the hospital you were mad, icy cold, trusting no-one except your three daughters. The nurses were murderers, the food poisoned, the doctors shams. But slowly, the right drugs, food and care got you better, to shuffling point. Shuffling, laughing, writing again, commanding as ever. Everything is back to normal now except the image of you, small and obstinate, broken and strong.