Dating : Identity

and failing memory

Breastbone. There was another word for it. What was it, now? Scapula?

No, that was wrong.

That TV. Always on. Vintage comedy this time. Those two in the bowler hats — the tall thin fellow and the fat one.

Clavicle? Clavichord? No, no.

‘Tea?’ a voice said.

He looked up into a young face — fresh skin, clear eyes. Signs of good health. Past her, old sad figures sat slumped in armchairs.

‘Anything else, Mr -?’

‘Doctor,’ he corrected, softly. ‘It’s Doctor.’