So it's come to this?

I have decided to eschew the grapefruit segments and go for the prunes. Five prunes. Five prunes a day - keeps you regular (so they say.)

- It’ll be the full English, will it, Mr Turner?
- Oh, yes please Mrs Wincey.
- Including the black pudding?
- Absolutely
(pause)
- Are you going to wait for your friend… or would you like me to bring yours through now?
- Err… perhaps I’ll have mine now. Don’t think she’ll be long, but, you know… don’t want the black puddings going cold, eh.

But Mrs Wincey does not leave immediately. She stands there, smiling. Then

- Shall you be leaving today then?
- Oh, yes, that’s right.
- And will that be the both of you?
- Yes… the both of us… thank you. Err… will a cheque be all right?
- Cash would be preferable.
- Oh, I think I can manage that.

She leaves, heading, I imagine, for the kitchen. The kitchen is somewhere at the back of the house. I have never seen it, nor its permanent occupant: Alfred. Mrs Wincey’s husband does all the cooking, and rarely sees the light of day.

My breakfast arrives, but still no Carole. Where are you, my Dymphna? This may be our last meal together – for some time to come. Let us share it, in a civilised manner.
I tuck in.

There was a film called “Morgan: a suitable case for treatment” Am I a suitable case for treatment? It doesn’t seem to have worked so far. But at least I’ve got a label now. I wonder if ‘suffering from a mental illness’ is just a modern way of saying you’re mad. After all, psychiatrists were originally called “mad doctors”. Different label – same job.

I am about to ask for more toast when Carole arrives at the table. She looks stunning. The Medical Rep sitting near the door, pauses, with a forkful of sausage an inch from his mouth. Carole is not wearing her leather mini and white stilettos – no, she has on one of those long dark brown skirts – so favoured by lady counsellors - with loads of material in it so it swishes and sways as she walks. Also she has got rid of her “sticks and stones” T shirt and is wearing a maroon blouse with a sort of short jacket. Her hair, brushed severely back and coiled in a very business like bun, shows no sign of the orange streaks. If she’d have arrived like this last night I could have passed her off as my therapist. My therapist – but not my Carole.

- You’re not packed yet?
- No, I thought there would be plenty of time after breakfast
- You know our train is at 11?
- Look Carole… I’ve been thinking
- If it’s about last night… forget it. It won’t happen again
- No there’s something I want to say to you.

Mrs Wincey re-appears with the toast.

- Oh, I see you’ve arrived. Will you be wanting a cooked breakfast?
Carole, without looking at her
- No. We haven’t time. I’ll just have coffee, and a piece of that toast.
Mrs Wincey sets down the toast, rather harder that I feel is necessary.
- I’ll make your bill out then.
And with glance at Carole which would shrivel a lesser person, she leaves. Carole raises her eyebrows and tilts her head enquiringly. (A habit I find irritating in women.)
- Well?
- I want to tell you about my mother’s bunion.