‘There’s never a pen in this house!,’ grumbled my husband, Colin, as he rushed to the shops.
We had plenty of pens; but Colin was dashing out, yet again, to buy another huge bundle of biros – as many as 50 at a time.
I sighed. This bizarre behaviour was common at this point – because Colin had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at just 68 years old.
I met Colin one Sunday in April 1978 at my local pub. I liked everything about him; he was clever and attractive, with a lovely smile and a great sense of humour.


English (US)