Ask D.H. Lawrence, ask Alan Sillitoe. It is not a pretty city and I was glad of that. A sun-kissed landscape somehow would have been wrong, too flippant for such a momentous occasion. It was a Sunday. A mutual friend had died and in discussing his life we discovered our own.
Life is precious and life is now.
In the background, Leonard Cohen moaned dolefully of love and hate. Having just eaten our 100th meal with mince, we raided the cupboard for the ubiquitous long-life milk. Suddenly the electric meter gave a final whir and we were plunged into a merciful darkness. With a last mangled moan, Cohen fell silent. When it finally happened we buried ourselves beneath covers of a different kind.