I stare at him for a few seconds, speechless. A smiling woman in a blue and black coat is heading our way with a large Tupperware container in her hand. I can see through the plastic that the contents are beige, not dark brown. Flapjacks, then, or macaroons. That’s good; a bit of variety. There’s been one delivery of chocolate brownies already today. This is an aspect of life on a cancer ward that I didn’t anticipate and wouldn’t have predicted: at least once a day, a female relative of a former patient turns up with a bag or box of some kind of edible treat, as a thank you to the ward staff. They do so whether their loved one has survived or died. I joked to Drew yesterday about this being the equivalent of tipping a taxi driver whether he drops you at your front door or dumps you in a skip miles from home. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ was his response.

The relatives of cancer patients do not, it seems, stop at flapjacks. They also sometimes send flowers and they always, without fail, bring in or send thank-you cards. There’s a ward noticeboard with dozens pinned to it. Most are pastel-coloured with tasteful pictures of birds, flowers or leaves on them, though one that appeared yesterday is plain white, smaller than all the others, and actually has the word ‘Death’ clearly legible on the front. That made me chuckle; at some point the ward obviously treated someone with a family that was opposed to euphemism on principle. That’s the kind of card I’d send, I think: ‘Dear ward staff, You totally failed to defeat death, but thanks for trying. Bit harder next time, eh?’

Once the woman with the Tupperware has left her offering on the reception desk and gone, I turn on Drew. No need to say, ‘Where were we?’ When I’m in the middle of trying to win an argument, I never forget where I was up to.

‘Is it going to be grimmer for Marion or less grim to spend her remaining time being changed by strangers? Don’t you think she’d prefer to just lie there catheterised, and not be endlessly mauled?’

Drew blinks away tears. ‘I can’t take this,’ he says. ‘I need to get some air.’ He moves fast. Gone. I don’t blame him.

Fiona sticks her head out of the ward kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Which bit of me’s in danger of perforation?’ I ask her.

‘Pardon?’

‘From the ringpull. Gut? Bowel?’