The institutional corridors with floral friezes and Artex ceilings down which I have walked in my life are legion.
I knocked on the door—thin plywood, gray, no nameplate—and, too quickly, as though she had been standing right behind it,
Maria Temple opened it and invited me in.
The room was tiny, a dining chair and two institutional armchairs (the wipe-clean, uncomfortable kind)
arranged opposite a small, low table, on which was placed a box of nonbranded “man-size” tissues.
I was momentarily thrown. Their noses are, with a few exceptions, more or less the same size as our own, are they not?
Did they really need a vastly bigger surface area of tissue, simply because they were in possession of an XY chromosome?
Why? I suspected that I really did not want to know the answer to that question.
There was no window, and a framed print on the wall (a vase of roses, made using a computer by someone who was dead inside)
was more offensive to the eye than a bare wall. “You must be Eleanor?” she said, smiling.
“It’s Miss Oliphant, actually,” I said, taking off my jerkin and wondering what on earth to do with it.
She pointed to a row of hooks on the back of the door,
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