In the next place you get, there will not be room for dead men, sick men, doomed men, men with bad prognoses, moderate prognoses, gingivitis, acne, tumours. Taste in music will be scrutinised (meaning Coldplay – there is no room for Coldplay), as will taste in women, men, pets, people, career choices, decisions yet to be made that hang like juice from lemons stinging your eyeballs before they’re slit – the lemons not eyes. I am not Salvador Dali, definitely no Frank Black.

You predict better outcomes, but probability’s a trick you picked up in school, and no-one’s worth time betting on. Not many live past seventy. By the time you retire most people you know will be scattered on lakes, in holiday places they cared for. And there’s nowhere you’d like to be left.