Of course you can eat and drink beforehand, I think to myself. Just don’t tell them. What are the odds of Ponytail Woman needing a general anaesthetic? Even if she does, what then are the odds of her puking and suffocating to death? Why is the medical profession, with the honourable exception of Fiona, so intent on creating guaranteed inconvenience, and even suffering, as a means of avoiding that one-chance-in-a-million catastrophe that’s bound not to happen?

I keep my wisdom to myself, in case I end up dying of excessive perforation. I don’t want Ponytail Woman to spend the rest of her life saying, ‘… and it turned out that the woman whose advice I took was that idiot comedian who died after swallowing a ringpull and doing nothing about it.’

I can’t think of a valid excuse for staying out here any longer, so I turn and head back towards the Death Hub. There are three people smoking outside the hospital’s main entrance, all standing in front of signs that say, ‘No Smoking Outside the Hospital’.

Yes smoking outside the hospital, actually. God, I wish I smoked. If only it didn’t taste and smell disgusting, turn your fingers yellow and kill you.

And now here comes a fourth smoker, bursting out of the doors with a cigarette ready and waiting in her mouth. She lights it, looking up at me as I approach. Her shapeless clothes hang off her: black hoody, baggy blue jeans. ‘I’m not even a smoker,’ she says. ‘But there are some days that just … you know?’

I manage a non-commital ‘Mm.’ She’s blocking my way. ‘Are you okay?’ she asks.

‘I’m … Sorry, have we met?’

‘No.’ She holds out her hand for me to shake. It’s small and pink: no nicotine stains on the fingers. Maybe she only took up smoking today, as a way of coping with having to be here. ‘But I love your work. You’re Kim Tribbeck, aren’t you?’ Her voice is sweet and makes her sound younger than she looks.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Well, sort of. I was Kim Tribbeck and I hope to be again. At the moment I’m someone who has to be in a hospital.’

She comes to stand by my side, as if we need to keep a lookout together. ‘I’m Faith Kendell – two “e”s. Most of my family pronounces it Ken-dell, otherwise everyone gets it wrong. I’ve seen you up there.’

I’m wondering if she means on stage or on TV when she says, ‘Ward 10. Not much fun, is it?’

‘Have you … Are you …?’

‘My mum’s on the ward at the moment. Bone cancer.’

Okay, now I know how to talk to her.

‘How long’s she got? My gran’s got a few days, tops.’

‘Oh, Mum might have a year, year and a half if she’s lucky. You’re here with your brother, aren’t you?’