You sorted them out yet?

On the drive over to my father's I made a careful note of all the coffee stops, the laybys, the brothels, with half a notion that I'd be making this drive a lot more in the coming months. And so, with the idea of his death reducing me to a series of basic needs, I tried to elevate the journey's end with a new recording of Gotterdammerung and so turned, eventually, into my father's drive almost deliriously out of my head.

You sorted them out?

My father's interest in my work always contains the suggestion that if I simply gave them all a hearty kick up the arse then I'd be free to do something far more productive with my time and while, aged forty seven, I may be coming round to that opinion myself on this occasion the question reminded me of my pale and broody client, R. Have I sorted her out, Dad, have I?

I'm trying, I said.

I do try.

I almost said sorry.

So, sliding into a ludicrous self pity and yet aware of using this to avoid the meaning of my visit, I took a breath and looked the old man up and down. We then looked at each other, briefly, and sensing the finality of myself in this, my body, and seeing, too, an involuntary twitch playing on his uneven mouth, I was able to take charge, step into the kitchen, and put the kettle on.

Was he coping? I glanced around for signs of neglect, unpaid bills, spots of blood, but found nothing. He was always a snappy dresser but my father never wore ties in his retirement and so, aside from the will, the only sign of derangement was this horrible shiny thing round his neck. It was his way of saying he was coping while allowing me to know that, in actual fact, he wasn't. It was the tie that inhibited me. I couldn't bring myself to ask why he'd sent the copy of his will. However, by the time I left it'd come to seem the most natural thing in the world. I drove home without a single thought in my head and yet, on stepping out of the car, aware, at least, that this is how death begins.