I am not having it, and I have been through it enough times with a woman called Halla on Mondays to be able to set it out properly.
I did not know about the notebook. I did not know about the eleventh of March, and I could not have.
But I gave her the key.
In 2023, when we moved in, I had a key cut for my mother without asking my wife, and I told her about it afterwards, in the car, as a nice thing I had done. For emergencies. Because she is on her own since Dad.
Maia said: “You might have asked me.”
And I said: “She’s not going to use it.”
And in the January of 2025 — ten months before any of this — my wife said to me, in our own kitchen, in about as plain a sentence as a person can manage:
“I don’t want her coming round when you’re not here.”
And I said: “She means well. She’s just like that.”
***She’s just like that.***
I have said that sentence about my mother since I was approximately nineteen years old. I have said it to girlfriends, to my own wife, at least four times to Dermot, and twice in a letting agent’s office.
