Home

For months and months, every time the Communist has said the word "home" he has burst into tears, and I don't blame him.

But today, finally, with the assistance of a wheelchair taxi, we managed to bring him home for a couple of hours: the first time he'd been home since he was taken to hospital in June.

After that, he was exhausted, and we took him back to the nursing home.

But it was very, very well worth it. Here he is, with my mother. She's only six months younger than him - which means she'll be 84 in April - but, as you can maybe see from this photo, she's still incredibly fit. Yesterday, when there weren't enough chairs in his room, she simply sat cross-legged on the floor. Oh, and she doesn't believe in hair dye, either - that's its natural colour.

Now we know we can do it, we'll bring the Communist home again very soon.