“He was dying, and as if this wasn’t enough, now there he was: the unwelcome visitor lounging in the high-backed standard-issue armchair by his bed. No avoiding such visitors, of course. They were par for the course in this kind of environment, appearing at the door with dreary regularity, slung about with the inevitable grapes and chocolates. He’d said to the nurse, ‘Don’t people have any imagination?’ She smiled, smoothed the blue coverlet on the bed. Sometimes the grapes came straight from th...e supermarket shelf, unwashed. He could tell. And the visitors had not been slow in beating a path to his door. News travelled fast in a city this size, and bad news at the speed of light: and he was hardly through the door, he thought, hardly settled in his baby-blue bed before the faces began appearing, eager noses and avid eyes against the glass. No avoiding this. And besides, the clock was counting down the days and hours and minutes remaining: people were entitled to feel that they hadn’t a moment to waste, were entitled to be on the bustle.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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