I was walking through central London carrying a mop bucket full of fresh soapy water and looking for a mop. I was to clear a floor in readiness for the general public to visit an exhibition. I went into a shop selling Black and Decker tools, everything was ordered and pristine and smelling of rubber. The assistant didn’t have any mop heads and was a little put out that I asked. She offered me a rather sad looking feather duster that she’d found in their cleaning cupboard but I said it wouldn’t do, the floor had to be clean. Such is the prosaic nature of my dreams.
She texts him to see if he knows of any podcasts the nurse could play for him. He has pneumonia now but they say they will treat it. I try to bite my tongue. Let him go, I want to say, let him go peacefully, and without pain but it is none of my business and I know what it lose a parent, even an erstwhile one. Another friend, though more acquaintance calls him to ask after the patient. I haven’t heard his voice for over 24 years. They all feel it, that clan, that cabbal of friends. It shakes them. As it does me. Poor man. I couldn’t help but like him.