Eleven years ago a very good friend, a writer, died of leukaemia. When she knew she was dying she asked me to be the custodian of her writing (she also got me to practise the poem she wanted me to read at her funeral, so she could make sure I read it the way she wanted!) and some time afterwards I received a box of files and papers. I thought I would want to go through it but I never have. Recently her son asked me for some of it and I discovered that the box had got pushed into the furthest depths of our attic eaves. Yesterday I hauled it out and have spent today reading and sorting.