All winter, I’ve been sleeping in the room I slept in as a child and I wake up each day not knowing how old I am. Five? Or twenty-five? He could live to be a hundred – I could be middle-aged, still staring up at this same ceiling.
‘He’s not himself’, Mum says in the kitchen. Well, who is he then? Is he 40 per cent of his young self? Ten? Do I still have to love him as much as ever, this 90 per cent stranger?