Sunday morning. I am in Grenouille’s bedroom, setting out medications and switching off the overnight machines, before starting to unwind G’s bedclothes, which have somehow got twisted over and over into a thick rope. G’s eyes open.
“Mornin'”.
“Good morning”, I say, tugging at the sheet, “and goodness me, whatever has happened here – have you been fighting crocodiles in your sleep?”
G gives me an old-fashioned look, then disappears briefly as I finally get the sheet pulled up flat to the head of the bed. I straighten and smooth the quilt and fold the linen back down over it.
G, reappearing, says decisively, “Actually, no. Bad guys.”
There is a beat’s pause, then G adds, “I don’t like crocodiles. Much. But bad guys are worse.”
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