“How dare you call anyone a “bag” mum. That’s just awful. Have some respect for Christ sakes!”
“I’ll call her what I feckin’ like. How dare she come into my house. What are all those little bits of paper on the floor. That’s her. Sprinkling bits of white paper on the floor.”
“That’s from the washing mum. That’s from bits of a tissue you left in your pocket and it got washed, and I shook the washing out, and it got walked into the hall.”.
“Feckin’ Bag. You don’t believe me, do you. Believe me, believe me, BELIEVE ME!”

Well, no.

This particular paranoia has been going on for about 20 years. My poor Dad, who to mine and everyone else’s knowledge, never played away, was accused of having another woman, and sometimes several. This other woman, who was never seen, but was felt as a presence, would go into mum’s wardrobe, and move her clothes around, and remove and then replace, red blouses.

This role as wardrobe rummager blossomed into a much richer one as Dad became ill with oesophageal cancer, and then died on February 14th last year. It was an interesting year. Dad vomitting relentlessly into a double tesco bag lined waste paper basket all night as my mother screamed obscenities upstairs at The Bag who was committing all kinds of obscenities with Dad. Negligees were mentioned. The Bag brought her teenage prostitute daughters in. In negligees. We have a tape. It’s unedifying listening but I will do a transcript one day.