The sky’s full of thunder. The drum-roll to a day of hard truths. I need to stay positive: keep bleak thoughts out of my head, stay off whisky as long as I can. Keep busy. I mustn’t sit still. Distraction, Philippa always said, can be a great help. Thank God Grandad wouldn’t fork out for a dishwasher. I’m trying not to think about him. I see him in his blue chair, sagging to the right. But this time he’s lifeless, his false teeth bulging, a broken-down doll lying at the dump.