The A21 is particularly noisy this morning. It's a bank holiday and everyone is rushing to the sea. My mother's carer, Kirstie, says her husband is going to Hastings in a cloud of bikers. He passed him on her way here, parked up in a lay-by with 30 of his mates; she recognised him by his helmet.
As Kirstie is leaving my mother leans forward and asks, "And who was that?" She doesn't recognise any of her carers, not even Ana who's the one who stays with her when we go back to Oldham.