My cough reminds me of childhood; hearing someone, an adult, making the same sound. My grandmother? Grandfather? The sound has the same colours as my grandparents’ sitting room which always seemed dark, with the window masked by the pot plants brought weekly by the various grandchildren, the leather armchairs, Toby jugs on a high shelf, a fire in the grate and brass bells shaped like ladies in nineteenth century clothes on the mantelpiece above.I can see my grandfather with a linen hankerchief flowering over his face. But I can’t hear his cough. My cough is a hook that does not quite meet the eye of memory.