I happen to be there for the death of S – we argued once, and I have never forgotten or forgiven. He had grown monstrously fat while moribund, and now dollops of his corpse protrude from the windows of the squat, quaint old house. The undertakers, the family, ambulance and fire crews all stand around scratching their heads – what is to be done? The house will need to be dismantled to get him out. I feel my own mind to be beautifully organised – all my thoughts and feelings about S are perfectly arrayed, I’ve only to sit down on a ledge and write out his obituary. The newspaper print it in facsimile – in the original Biro.