THE TAXI WAS late, even later than usual. I was too tired to be angry. It would be a waste of precious energy, and besides, I know very well these taxi drivers are gold compared to most. Some don’t show up at all. Most can’t be bothered to get out of their vehicle to ring the doorbell of the nursing home. One compassionless bastard simply left Mum at the locked door. Luckily the staff found her before she wandered off and the police had to be called. So this father-and-son maxi-taxi team can look as potbellied and snaggle-toothed as they like. They may not be too dainty about deadlines, but they show up eventually. And despite the unprepossessing externals, they show up with a bit of heart.

I know all this, but still the waiting is hard. On the slide towards arsenic hour, Mum’s thin grip on reality loosens and my nerves fray under the saw of her anxious repetitions.