The luggage came first. Four enormous trunks from the same brown-and-gold set. Monogrammed; but of course. The old man was wheeled in last. He looked at first like a bad cut of meat, muscular, livid and corrupted. His outsized forearms, grotesquely tanned, barely fitted into his chair. He held himself up with intimidating composure, given his age, like a Greek statue on its disintegrating plinth, legs crumbling under folded fleece. His thin white hair, at least, was consistent, plastered back over his skull. Shirtsleeves rolled up. Miss Hancock stood next to him and looked down.

‘Yes, Daddy? It is nice, isn’t it? You’re going to have a really relaxing time here. It’s the best in London.’ She pecked him on the cheek.

The old man gazed back with milky eyes. He didn’t look quite alive, which sent a shiver down my spine. I reminded myself to feel bad for him, dropped off like a suitcase at the airport. Mouth ajar, abandoned in the middle of a pile of expensive junk. With all that money, you could get staff to look after him round the clock in his own home, save having to move him at such an old age. You wouldn’t even have to pretend you cared. One’s own bed, own four walls, own trinkets and memories, are actual things that help an old person sleep better at night. One fewer soul for us to look after. I cannot recommend enough that you look after your father at home. But I didn’t say anything, because the truth of the matter is, without people like her, we’d all be out of our jobs. It is better here, after all, with people who are paid to care – and such good pay that it is easy to count your blessings and start to believe it is more than simply a job. A vocation for empathy. I couldn’t say I was feeling at my most empathetic right then. Miss Hancock stared at me, the incompetent nurse. Thankfully, Mona slipped out of the Bowl and took the wheelchair by the handles. She pushed Mr Hancock up the disabled ramp, parking him between the potted palm and the reconditioned Victorian lift.

‘Well, I really have to run now!’ said Miss Hancock, ‘I’m just so awfully busy today. Thank you everyone. I’ll call in a bit later to check everything is going smoothly.’

A tinkle, as she swivelled on her heels.

‘Bye, Daddy!’ She made for the sliding doors, swinging her car keys on her little finger. She halted with a jerk. ‘One last thing. The cotton ones are in the second smallest trunk.’ Confused, I glanced at Mona, by the lift, but she returned a blank stare. ‘The pads, for Christ’s sake! Do I have to spell it out for you? Incontinence pads, I believe you call them!’