It was a mighty stink. He mentioned it first, smelt it first. I was in bed. Lying down. The smell took longer to reach me. Meat. Someone was cooking meat. And it stank. Was it coming from the flat below or from across the walkbridge. I thought it would never go. Fried onions superseded it. Then I must’ve slept. (Not before soaking a tissue in perfume and holding it to my nose).
I’m reading Tom Lubbock’s book about his dying. Such accceptance. It is noble, not brave, I think but above that. Spiritual even. I am awed.
