In her youth, she was somewhat of a tearaway: a street fighter who could knock out fellas, sleeping around, drinking heavily, and what not.
Then in her late 30s, she had a stroke, and became paralysed down her left side. It obviously put a stop to the scrapping and shagging (if only because, in the latter case, of ableism).
And she saw me, and I saw her, and she stopped her wheelchair. And she took a deep sigh, and said 'I've got something to tell you, but I don't know if I should'.
I pretty much knew what what it would be straight away, and I was like 'Go on auntie, just say it'. And she 'confessed' - that's what it felt like - she'd been writing to my Dad, and hoped I didn't mind.
I could only tell her that of course I don't mind - because that's the truth. She said she didn't approve of what he's done, but she's remembering the person she knew as a child. But, she said, she felt she needed my permission and approval. Her husband recently died of cancer. I gave her it, of course, not that I think she even needed it. And that was Friday.