“DOORS ARE CLOSING. LIFE GOING DOWN,” I misheard the Voice of Surbiton Hospital’s lift say to us.
“Well, that’s unduly pessimistic,” I said to mum.
“Find my lipstick for me will you,” she frowned at the lift mirror.  Then she smiled up at me from a lop-sided position in her collapsible wheelchair, teeth awry, hair, slightly deranged. I looked an absolute mess.

When we got back to Mum’s the dog had pissed up against the cooker.


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