Around the beginning of each October, Graham would start bumping into things.
He would complain of blurry vision, particularly at night… bouncing unsteadily from one piece of furniture to the next.
“My Vitamin A levels are dangerously low,” he’d tell me.
I’d cluck my tongue and pretend to be gravely concerned.
And then I’d bake him loaf after loaf of pumpkin bread all month long.
By winter, he had always managed a complete recovery.