‘Here’s a list of my bowel movements!’ says Thomas, handing me a closely-written sheet of paper with all the dates and times, accurate to the minute, GMT. ‘I used to work in telecoms’ he says, settling back into his armchair. ‘I know how to keep track of output.’

Thomas is so old, I imagine telecoms at that time would have been horses, valves and copper wire. He must have been a useful figure, though, because they sent him all over the world – Sierra Leone, the Bahamas, Patagonia.
‘Four children, four continents!’ he says, with a practised flourish. He smiles broadly, like someone unzipped a work bag and a couple of old hacksaws fell out.

He may have travelled the world many times over, but these days Thomas’ advanced age and precarious mobility means he’s pretty much confined to his room. He seems happy enough, though. It’s all been set up very sensibly – as you’d expect – everything to hand, everything in its place according to need and frequency of use, as neatly and logically planned as a circuit diagram. From his dilapidated armchair he can look out of the window, watch television, or simply survey the multitude of family photographs spread across the walls. It gives his chair a strange kind of height, I suppose, that prominent point you might reach if you were to climb a tall telegraph pole, lean back in your straps, thumb your helmet back, catch your breath and wonder at the diminishing curve of the world.

‘What do you think?’ he says. ‘Fix or Nix?’