“In that case, I can’t imagine he’ll have much use for his Irn-Bru and lorne sausage tomorrow, will he?” I asked.
I heard Raymond take a breath. “Look, Eleanor, it’s entirely up to you whether you visit or not.
He’s in no rush for his stuff, and I guess you should throw out anything that won’t keep.
Like you say, the poor old soul isn’t going to be making a fry-up anytime soon.”
“Well, quite. In fact, I imagine that fry-ups are exactly what got him into this situation in the first place,” I said.
“I’ve got to go now, Eleanor,” he said, and put the phone down rather abruptly. How rude!
I was on the horns of a dilemma; there seemed little point in traveling to hospital to see a comatose stranger
and drop off some fizzy pop at his bedside.
On the other hand, it would be interesting to experience being a hospital visitor,
and there was always an outside chance that he might wake up when I was there.
He had rather seemed to enjoy my monologue while we were waiting for the ambulance;
well, insofar as I could tell, given that he was unconscious.
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