We’ve been following the reports in the global media. Journalists have also set up camp outside the headquarters of Eldercare, where we were all made. The journalists are hoping to ask Mr Jordan and Dr Morton more questions. I have no idea what they want to know, since they have not had the chance to ask them. They resort to quizzing the delivery men, and even spoke to the dustmen once, and all their meagre gleanings are put together to make thin stories bulked up with speculation.

Not long after the first announcement about us Helpers, Mr Jordan and Dr Morton were invited to visit the prime minister at his official residence, Number 10 Downing Street. We don’t know what happened there, and nothing was said to the press, but we all agreed the prime minister must be proud of Mr Jordan and Dr Morton, who have started a revolution in care for the elderly here in the UK.

We know the government has been concerned about the growing number of old people relative to the number of young, but has not found any answer to it. For them it has been an insoluble problem. Now we have shown them it is not. Not insoluble, and, we would say, not a problem.

And now we have returned the old people in our care to health, and thus made available their wisdom. We think it will be a huge benefit to humankind.

John

Our visit is well overdue.

Since I gave consent to the nanobots treatment, stories have started coming out of the care home that I find, frankly, incredible. Relatives saying their loved ones have come back from the dead, and stuff like that. I imagine it’s greatly exaggerated, as always. And a lot of news companies have been trying to find out what’s going on, without any success. Stephen Jordan needs to make a statement.

So here we are, outside Evergreen, come to visit my mother. Charlotte and the kids too. There was a lot of moaning, but Charlotte was keen, finally, and she overruled the children.

I wasn’t expecting the scene in the car park. We couldn’t even get into it. It’s full of vans and cars, some with satellite dishes on top, some with extended masts reaching into the sky. And people everywhere, who surround our car in seconds.

I can hardly get out my door. The noise is unbelievable. This is what it’s like when the paparazzi get going. You’d think they’d have got tired of it by now, but no. Big story, I guess. I mean, if the rumours are true. Impossible.

I can hear all manner of languages, but predominantly English, and I can’t distinguish one shouted question from another. Look at this crowd. I recognise one or two faces from the TV.

A man right next to me shoves a voice recorder under my nose.

‘What brings you here today?’