My mum can yak for England. Hours on the phone – usually to her friend Glenda, sorting out the all-important pub arrangements – and then at the pub itself, to Glenda and anyone else within earshot, about goodness knows what, considering they’ve just spoken 30 minutes earlier. I don’t know how my dad copes. Like me, he’s happier in his inner musings, more likely to communicate via a thumbs-up emoji.