‘I know what you meant. You’re saying people make their personalities through social contact. And old people in care homes lose that, and whatever they do or say makes no difference to anything anymore. They have no power, so it doesn’t matter if they behave like dignified humans or not. They give up and merely exist, nothing more. And the staff – until you arrived – had social lives that didn’t include the old people, any more than a zoo-keeper would include the fish in his or her care.’

‘Yes. So you are not a fish, you see.’

‘You were making an analogy, but I was making a joke. Sorry. If we’re going to get along either I need to cut out the jokes or you need to learn what they are.’

‘I will learn,’ she said, with a look of grim determination that seemed at odds with the project of acquiring a sense of humour.

I look forward to breakfast now. The dining room is noisy and busy. At each table, groups of friends sit chatting, laughing, enjoying themselves, while the staff come and go with plates of food and drinks. I have the vaguest notion of what it was like before, but I think the food was unspeakable and the ambience like a mortuary. I don’t know if I’m remembering that or if I’m projecting onto it earlier memories of school.

I’m not going to think about it too much, because I’m certain it was terrifying and humiliating, although that could also apply to school.

I’m sitting now with Cecilia, and Pamela, Jane and Sylvia. All with short white hair, neat in pastel colours and cardigans. All sitting up straight, attentive, with a good colour to their cheeks. Cecilia alone is subdued, and pensive. I suppose she’s still thinking about her excursion. It isn’t every day you go to heaven. My news was easier to talk about.

‘The children came to visit yesterday. How long is it since I’ve seen them? I wish I could remember. They’ve grown.’

‘You didn’t say that, did you?’ says Pamela, who has several grandchildren.

‘I didn’t. I hated being told I’d grown when I was little, because it wasn’t much of an accomplishment. It just happened. Anyway, I love talking to them. So much to say. And they’re so… so… fresh? Is that the word I want? Untainted minds. Uncontaminated. Open.’

‘They are, aren’t they? What happens to them when they grow up?’

‘John was horrified when I said about the robots. Helpers.’

‘You told the children?’

‘Yes – and he went completely white. He was angry, I could tell. But I was right. I was right. They were frightened until I told them. And then they were excited. No fear. It is exciting. John looked like he’d sat on a pin.’

‘The children were frightened? They could tell?’