We deliver Christmas cards together. Our road and round about, she with the white stick, me guiding. Well, that's the way it's supposed to be, isn't it? I carry the cards, about a dozen divided into roads and houses, the ones she can do, the rest for me.
We're about halfway when she says, "How many left?"
"Six," I say.
"Which ones?"
I read out the names. She asks for so-and-so's and so-and-so's. "And you do numbers 32 and 34."
"Why not 33?" I ask.
"No, I'll do that. They've got a funny step. You'll fall over it."
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