They think they have a copyright on suffering, that's it. And here they are now, every bit as bad as the Germans. Not enough love. That's the simple reason. It all starts in the home. If every single one of them, Germans, Jews and Presbyterians, had been spoiled with love, there'd be no trouble in the world today.

Michael needed the break. He was looking woeful pale for ages. But I can't understand what they wanted with Venice. If it's water they wanted, God knows there's enough of that here.

I often wonder what's going through his mind. But I'd feel stupid tapping my head like he was a lunatic or, worse still, writing it down. That's what they said in the hospital. But I'd feel stupid. WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF? A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS? I'd love to see him smile again, even if it's not a real smile. I was going to tell him about your man from Coote Street in the hotel in Dublin. Would you like a serviette, sir? No thanks, Miss, I'm as full as a tick. But I'd be all day writing it down.

The minute she came in that night, I knew she was at the fags again. I could smell the Silvermints off her. He, the eejit, wanted to know if she had a cold, would she like a Disprin or a hot water bottle in the bed. She wasn't a bit happy when I said it was Good Friday tomorrow and we'd all be going to kiss the cross. As she closed the bedroom door, I'm sure she said kiss my arse. I lie awake at night and those words keep drumming in my ear. Kiss my arse. Kiss my arse.

He wasn't in great form today. I couldn't get him to stir from the fire, and, when ten o'clock came, he didn't even want to go for his walk. I know it's hard, but he has to face the world sometime. He can't go on living like an owl.

I wasn't too worried about his hands, but I hated the way the doctors looked from one to the other when I said maybe he could grow a beard. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't love him. Everyone says he's the image of himself, but they're all liars. Sometimes when he's asleep, I rub my finger along his cheek and it's like touching glass. I ask God to make me like him again, but it's no use.

I worry about him sitting so near the fire, but I'm afraid to say anything in case there's a row. I know it's stupid but I can't stop thinking about the night I left the plastic bucket on the hob. continue