“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.
“Yes but my hairs’ a mess,” she frowned at the lift mirror and then smiled up at me from a lop-sided position in her collapsible wheelchair, teeth awry, hair, yes slightly deranged.
When we got back to Mum’s the dog had pissed up against the cooker.