Tonight’s soup with crusty bread, as on Saturday, but tonight, with some Fava beans from Franks. A dirty window-box, overflowing from above, when I arrived. Poor Mrs Rodriguez, her hand trembling on a watering-can, immensely irritating, splashing on fresh trousers collected from the dry cleaner, a quick bite before the show, War Horse in a West End theatre, Fava beans on a shelf, reminding me of my mother, the night they took my uncle away.

ward twenty-seven,
just after intensive care,
the all-night vigil.