His sense of humour, together with his rationalism and ideology, helped me enormously on my road to recovery. Bruce eventually convinced me of the need to move on. “Que sera sera,” he would often say to me. “Ya can't let the grass grow under yer feet, me old mate.”

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In the embrazure of one of the windows, a young girl was sitting, with a drawing-board in her lap, apparently absorbed in the contemplation of a marble relief which was suspended upon the wall.

I can see the difference now between me and my wife having our offspring 'perfected' and a bowl of genetic soup being inserted into a neutralised egg and put into some fem's body to be raised by a gang of brainists.