It was the following day when she had her misgivings and put the painting in the loft, with a little chunter to herself. She was being self-punishing, but perhaps she was only following the most sensible course of action. Ideally, we’d all put any art we created away for a while before we properly evaluated it. Two weeks? Probably not long enough. Let’s call it two years. OK, ten. That will do it. Scratch that. Just to be sure, let’s come back and discover our true worth as creators from the afterlife. ‘Hi, I’m dead now. What? Yes, fully. I even have the papers to confirm it. Can you finally tell me my true star rating, out of ten?’ Joyce, I think, were she able to pop south over the border between the dead and the living, then north over the other one, between England and Scotland, would be pleased at what she saw on the wall of Dr Micklewhite and Dr Micklewhite. But – and I’m not denigrating Joyce’s talent for one second here – are enigma and the passing of the years to be given some credit for that? Is it maybe just possible that time itself has changed Joyce’s painting? As if some spiritual lichen of its own has grown on and around it, deepening and enriching its texture? And, if so, what good does that do Joyce, now? What we need to do is get her trending online. Death: it’s when we decide if everyone is good or bad, right, decide which of the two boxes to put them in, as well as the wooden one they’re already in? Let’s get her a Wikipedia page, get the conversation going. ‘So sorry to hear Joyce Nicholas is no longer with us. I only met her once, for no more than nine seconds, but she was not stuck up at all, and even said hello to my dog.’ ‘I have always been a huge fan of Joyce, even when nobody was talking about her, and it was super uncool to like her.’ ‘Graham, can you remind me how much we paid for that picture above the spare bed?’ ‘£300, I think. It was quite a long time ago.’ ‘Well, I’ve just found out from this newspaper article that it’s worth £55,000 and by someone called Joyce Nicholas. She died in Devon in 1973.’ Oh, Joyce, if only you’d have known your artistic worth, been raised in a different generation, and put yourself out there. You could be an influencer now. But you wouldn’t have wanted that, you say? Why on earth not? Oh, because the very process itself was the important part of the matter for you? The feeling of being lost inside it, guided by invisible hands. The trance. The freedom. But what about the ‘likes’, what about the dopamine rush? How old-fashioned you are, Joyce. Don’t you realise that even the dead have an Instagram account these days? Don’t do yourself a disservice. Play the game. Everyone must.