The dizziness.

The fog that came over me some evenings and lifted by morning.

The way Dulce always insisted on bringing me my evening tea herself, at nine o’clock, in the same porcelain cup, and always smiled, handing it to me.

It had not been age catching up with me.

And the cruel little jokes in front of guests — Mortimer needs everything explained three times — those had not been thoughtless.

They were a record.