Dear, dear John
I’ve just done something very strange and silly. I was finally tackling the huge pile of ironing which has accumulated over the past few months, and there were some things of yours in it.
John, I have spent decades ironing your shirts. I never objected to doing it, I’d like to think (especially now) that I always did it with love.
I just ironed two or three of your shirts, even though I know you will never need or wear them again.
It was such a familiar task, John. I should have been crying as I did it, but in fact it just gave me huge comfort. Even though I knew it was the last time.
I’m glad I had a lovely man for whom to iron shirts for so many years.