I’m not going to rise to this bait, but really, he started down this line once before, and he realised he was being insensitive. This time he’s got a full head of steam on. Once again, care of the elderly is less important than the need of fit and healthy people to have in effect a domestic slave, sold to them with what he calls the human touch. We oldies don’t need it, but his prospective customers do. The humans here are relegated to behind-the-scenes drudgery, apart from Janet Goodenough, who has nothing to do all day but be front of house for new visitors. The touch I get regularly is not human, but Winifred’s. Not that I’m complaining.

‘You’re going to sell Helpers?’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘Door to door?’

‘Of course not. In a massive out-of-town warehouse. I start next month.’

‘Congratulations, dear. You must tell me all about it. I’m pleased for you, truly. It’s a relief – I think a lot of jobs are going to vanish before long. At least you’ll be all right.’

He looks pleased with himself, too. And why not? He’s part of the enormous change the world’s going through. Rather than being a victim of it.

‘Yes, we will. Anyway, why weren’t you listening when I told you about the house?’

‘I was listening, but then I was distracted. By other thoughts.’

‘What thoughts?’

‘About death, if you must know. Don’t look so scared.’

‘I’m not. What about death?’

‘When it will come. To me.’

John gets up and paces in a circle. I watch him. He always needs to stand up when he’s made to think about difficult, emotional subjects.

‘Mum. I’ve been thinking about that too. And I don’t see why – with the nanobots – surely—’

‘I might never die?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then what?’

‘Yes. Because everyone will want to live forever. The world…’

‘I know. I don’t think anyone’s thought this through.’

‘Probably not,’ he says. ‘But people here do die, don’t they?’

‘Yes, they do. I don’t see why either. I mean, of course we all know we have to die. Always have known. It’s a condition of life. But if the nanobots do what Winifred tells me they do, what’s going to cause my death? And what causes the other deaths here?’

John sits down next to me. We both look at the garden. The leaves are turning yellow or red on the trees. The plants in the borders are drooping, sagging, looking overblown. Everything’s past its best, though the colours are beautiful. The air’s still warm, but it carries a different smell. Not the warm, full smell of summer. A sharper scent. A colder smell, including something of decay.