Out of synch.

It occurred to me last night that we are all waiters. I don’t mean that we’re all waiting for something – although that’s probably a better point than the one I’m making. What I meant was that it doesn’t matter what sort of people we are, as long as we do what people want from us and look smart, then everyone thinks we’re fantastic.

It seemed more poignant last night.

My Uncle Gordon came back round yesterday afternoon. He woke me up and it was dark already, so I wasn’t fully sure of what was happening. He’s in touch with the solicitor and has finalised the funeral – which is now on Thursday. He took a quick look at the house – as though it might fall down – and then left.

I didn’t tell him about Norman. Not after the reaction of my friends, who thought he was a possible mental. Norman stayed up in the spare room when they came around last night. They mistook the stare in his eyes for the same you see in supermarkets on men who have trolleys full of nothing but cans of beans and alcohol. They don’t know about his wife. But then nor do I. Nor does he, after all.