I started sweating when I was twelve. During school games, wet patches came under the armpits of my t-shirt. Bitter and sticky, it was different to anything my body had smelt of before and called for only one thing: deodorant. I knew what deodorant was because my classmates used it. They sprayed it over themselves first thing in the morning, not . . .
"Write a card to Peter. Say sorry from Mary." Who's Peter? I know everyone Mum knows, I write the Christmas cards every year. "My first boyfriend, before your dad. I need to say sorry." My mum has MS. She's had it since I was five. Early on it was simple. I could explain it by saying, "It just means she can't walk," but not now. Now it's worse. It progresses slowly: plateaus and falls, never improvements. Mum's a . . .