His mind drifted back to some faraway day. He was on a beach in a foreign land with the woman he loved. She had loved him once too. The clay-white sand seemed to stretch for miles but he didn’t mind because he had nowhere he needed to be, no concept of time on that day. The sand stuck to his naked feet like a second skin, the warmth of it pleasant between his toes. She softly encouraged him towards the water, laughing at his unwillingness. There was something in her eyes when she laughed which left him helpless. He rolled up his trousers deliberately and followed her. He braced himself for the cold but instead the water was tepid, like the bath when you’ve stayed in it too long. She took his hand and they walked like that, silent as the gentle waves nibbled their toes. It was the best sort of silence.

God, there were so many memories from that day. The orange sun which blurred the horizon. How they prayed it would never set. Then there was the breeze, that summer breeze that was nothing like the harsh wind from home. It was warm, gentle, caressing your face like a lover’s promise. As they walked it soothed him, he drank it into his lungs. It played with her hair, sometimes blowing the strands into her eyes. He remembered the gentle way she brushed them away, like the way you stroke a newborn child’s face. Her fingers were so slim, paler than the rest of her skin.

The day seemed to go on forever, the way the best days do.

Now he shook his head as if trying to force the memories out. He returned to cleaning the toilet, forcing himself to concentrate on his work. It was easier this way. Christ, there was nothing like a good bottle of bleach to evoke memories of that summer breeze.

Daddy’s attempt to teach his son left and right was critically undermined by his inability to put the shoes on the right feet 

It’s never easy putting someone else’s cape on

A buzz of whispered conversation ran through the audience. One man could be heard saying ‘That guy who was giving the talk about improving communication, could you understand his accent?’

It was the early hours before we arrived back in Northern Ireland. The journey had been long and gruelling and it was after three before we got to the house. We were all tired, crabid and, I suppose, a bit fed up because the holiday was over. Italy was already nothing more than a pleasant memory. James had grabbed a bit of sleep on the coach, plane and car but was now half awake again so we wanted to get him to bed immediately. The house was cold after being empty for a week so we put him in our bed and Debs cuddled him tight. I jumped into bed and was startled momentarily by a large furry object on my pillow. It was one of James’ favourite teddies. Despite his exhaustion James was delighted by my instinctive shocked reaction and began to laugh. A little at first and then in floods until he was giggling uncontrollably. I held his little body which was trembling with good-humoured abandon. His laughter was so contagious that soon Debs and I were helplessly joining in. The sun was already beginning to rise over the horizon and creep under the blinds. I can’t remember anything after that so I suppose we must have drifted off to sleep in that way, cuddling and giggling in the half light. It was one of those rare, undefinable, irrepressible moments of parental joy when all the pressures of the world were far away and you didn’t have to pretend to be cynical about everything. I know James won’t remember it for long but I will. In fact when I am older and even more confused than I am now I would be perfectly satisfied if this was one of the few memories which stayed with me. The night we came home from holiday and laughed ourselves off to sleep.

Delivering a speech at Stormont today. Conclusive proof that I do sometimes move from the sofa.