Lionel is lying in bed, everything in line with everything else – nose, arms (outside the covers), legs (inside the covers) – as neat and square as a newly-boxed toy: The Recently Discharged Patient (batteries included).
On the wall at the foot of the bed are four paintings. The Pope, A Jaguar, Angela Rippon and Twiggy. The three personality paintings are only just recognisable, all slightly off. Angela Rippon looks startled, like an owl that swallowed an over-large mouse. The jaguar doesn’t fare any better, his muzzle twisted, like he caught it in the door of a jeep.
‘I did them,’ says Lionel. ‘What d’you think?’
‘I think you’ve really got something.’
‘That’s my favourite. There.’
He nods at the Pope. A man who seems to be praying so hard his face has turned brick red.
‘I  spent a long time on the eyes,’ says Lionel. ‘On all the little veins and bits.’
‘Amazing!’
‘Of course, you know why he’s praying, don’cha?’
I look at the painting more closely.
‘I don’t know. Where’s his hat? Someone’s nicked it and he wants it back.’
‘No. He’s praying the jaguar doesn’t catch wind of him.’