I woke up in the middle of the night, and went to the bathroom. The time was 03:30. As was making my way back to my bedroom, the Old Man came out of his bedroom to find out why I had got up. “I thought you were sneaking away [i.e. to Suburbia Somnolenta],” he said.
In the FA Cup-tie between Portsmouth and Birmingham City, the score was 0-0. The Old Man asked:
“How did they do in the first game?”
I reminded him that FA Cup-ties weren’t organised on a two-leg, home-and-away basis.
During a TV interview with the manager of Southend United, we were shown the players jumping over hurdles.
“What’s this, athletics?” the Old Man asked.
“No, it’s footballers in training.”
I asked the Old Man whether we had viewed other houses before making an offer on this house.
“I don’t think we did.” [The stress was on “did”.] “When we came and looked round this one, we were satisfied.”
As we were finishing our tea at about 18:00, the Old Man asked:
“Shouldn’t we be eating as much as possible?”
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
That evening, the Old Man talked in his sleep a lot — for the first time as far as I know, and at length, about keys. He asked someone, nonchalantly enough, how they had got in here and whether it was with a key. He had a key, he said, and there was one “at the top of the ladder”.
When I came to make the Old Man’s bed, his pyjamas were nowhere to be found, so I gave him another pair out of the wardrobe.
[Original posting 20 March 2010]