There were so many questions:

• Why had my parents “rescued” my red Peugeot 205 (sold on in 2008) and booked it into repair at a garage (of which we knew nothing) at the other side of town?
• Did it really require all of us – sisters included – to travel so far just to see how well the repair was going?
• Wouldn’t it be more sensible to phone to see if the car was ready before we set off? This third outing was likely to be fruitless (again).
• Why was TPR now working in Glasgow, living in Bristol, but still making it over to Edinburgh for the gym? It looked like he might be avoiding me.

Of course, as suspected, the car was still in no fit state to be taken home. The whole left wing had been removed, and replaced with hideous green dented panelling. The car was in a worse state than it had been at arrival at the garage. Even so, the rest of the family stood around admiring the vehicle as if it had just won the Monaco Grand Prix. “How much will all this work cost?” I asked two receptionists. Because I was going deaf, they responded by scribbling imaginary figures on a non-existent blackboard in the air. The total was approximately £1200. I ranted at my mother that this was a complete waste of money for a heap of exhausted scrap metal that I had virtually given away two years previously.

On our way home we stopped at a sports stadium to watch my mother’s friend and daughter play in a music concert. By now I could hardly hear a thing so I left the party (including TPR, who barely acknowledged my presence) for the pharmacy. I was offered tablets of multiple strengths, shapes and sizes to cure my deafness, even though I requested ear drops.