I am fifty-eight and I run a foundation my mother paid for.

I do not call that a career and I am not going to start.

A final written warning on my son’s employment file, which is there until 2026, and the loss of four properties from his portfolio, and a letter read out to a membership meeting in November correcting things he said.

Whatever those ninety seconds on a stage cost him professionally over the next twenty years, which is not a number anybody will ever be able to give him.

Seven weeks, in the autumn of 2024, in which both of us believed something false and behaved accordingly, and which I could have shortened at any point by asking one question at a sink and did not, because I wanted the version where somebody spoke.