He bought the pyjamas because he had a premonition. That's what he called it. A premonition. We were in the sales in Shaw's when, out of the blue, he said I'll be back in a minute and disappeared into the men's department. When he came back, he showed me this baby-blue pyjamas with a navy collar and a crest on the breast pocket and said I bought it because I had a premonition.

I had to laugh because, in forty years of married life, only once did he ever wear a stitch to bed. Only the once. And that was the night Fluffy and the tomcat were bawling on the window. They woke us up about three o'clock in the morning and we couldn't get back to sleep. They were like babies. He got up and rapped the window a few times, but sure they only laughed at him. I never heard the likes of it. Eventually he jumped out, threw on his shirt and trousers, and tore out the door, roaring and shouting like an eejit. He was so cold when he came back that he got in the way he was. That was the only night he ever wore a stitch. Even in the middle of winter, when I'd be wrapped up like the Michelin Man he wouldn't wear a stitch. He said it wasn't healthy, that your skin couldn't breathe properly. Then he'd start on about dermis and epidermis, sensory fibres, lymphatic vessels. I was worse to open my mouth. It just got him going. He was an expert on everything.

In the beginning I used to say will you not be talking nonsense, but I was wasting my breath. There was no stopping him. Dermis, epidermis, sensory fibres, lymphatic vessels. Anyway, other things about him annoyed me more. Like the way he hated music. Not just the modern stuff or opera. All his life, he hated any sort of music. Even birds. He used to say will you send out the cat, how can I relax with all that squawking in the garden? It's not natural. How could you love a man that didn't like music? But I did. Day in, day out for forty years. I couldn't even hum in the house. When I heard him at the front door, I had to turn off the wireless or the CD player Michael got me for Christmas. But he could be funny too. Like the time he told me about your man in the ESB that got the prescription for the pessaries. Did they work? the doctor asked. No good at all, doctor, I might as well be sticking them up me arse.

The other night, I put on a CD and sat there with my eyes closed, singing along with the words. I never felt so happy. It was like I was miles away from everything. I love you because you understand, dear, every single thing I try to do. Put your sweet lips a little closer to the phone. continue