Perhaps it is because I have always longed for affection that I feel an instinctive sympathy when faced with a mother who has laboured all her life and is now bedridden.

We walked into the house and his mother was indeed bedridden, her hair a mess of flowers, looking ten years older than she really was.

She was happy to see us and tried to get up and get out of bed to cook for us, but the very act of getting up made her gasp for breath. I stopped her, put on my apron and prepared myself for the kitchen.

After dinner, Watson asked me to take a shower...