Textbook horror story, perfectly routine. When they are unfurled like that before your eyes it’s like some cruel joke that you need to endure to the end, before the flimsy put-on is conceded. The lady clinging to her husband in the corridor, holding tight and hurting him, he said. Just a week and I’ll come back to take you home. From her room across the way Mira wandered in jabbering in Serbo-Croat. (Silence reigned ordinarily from the rooms with their colourful stickers of occupants’ names.) A Chinaman in his chair was slobbering food from his bowl. Attendants passed alert and cautious; complaints came from visitors of your kind. (You wrote friend at the desk. Later it would dawn no friends ever visited here.) Even after almost a fortnight the recognition was instantaneous. Again, like last time at the hospital, the plums and grapes were consumed quickly, greedily, almost half of what had been brought. Somehow the newspaper & ciggies had been forgotten. At that Al punched the air in that old time way of the theatre, swinging his fist laterally close to his chest with some force. One fine moment came at Al’s disgust at the Hearld Sun, which had been fetched from the common room. I hate that paper. HATE it. Again, forceful. You know I never bought it at the supermarket when they didn’t have The Age. The man was still present; still in attendance. It was great to see. The African Mobility Captain got a serve for his rough handling, very likely audible in the corridor where he passed. A recent negligent shave had left one of Al’s sideburns an inch and a half longer than the other.
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