….Who might be the target? It depends on where Uncle Wally's lamplight falls, and who it finds blinking back, the beam emerging from between his eyes and slightly above, the head torch fitted to a standard miner's coal helmet, the same worn by men underground whether it is Sollihull or Silesia, Sanchow or Siberia.
Othewise, it has been pitch black here, and cold. Not that we haven't been amusing ourselves. Like critics, arguing about some subtle shades of absent colour. Or scientists calculating the degrees of chill. Or artists exhibiting our beautiful/horrifying visions, like those remembered from our 1970's grand old California days lying in saline water in sensory deprivation tanks, or the Gothic tales told of, or was it by, Ormagh bodies left for days wrapped from head to toe in cotton wool.
– No more second hand, Uncle Wally growls. Christ, doesn't the man know what metaphor is, I whisper quietly to myself, how literal does this get?
Uncertain. Uncertain because these are the days since we made the discovery of water-boarding. And in my previous line of work, advance care directives, living wills and other ways of preparing for death, or Death Planning, as it is now politely called.
Howls of protest!
– There's a world of a difference! somebody shouts from the general direction of Dr Crippen and others sat under the sign of Guardian Readers. How obscene!
Of course we are well-intentioned, and of course there is a difference, a big difference between water-boarding and Death Planning, but my problem is I am not sure that Uncle Wally sees it that way, not when the beam of his lamplight actually happens to fall on me. Or on any of us, because it is all of our problem actually, the problem of false consciousness that is, not just mine.
– I see you! Dr Vegas says from where he is sat behind me.