The cable car only took a few minutes, but I narrowed my attention onto my shoes ( those Derby loafers I bought when finishing my therapy training), and thereby, allowing time to expand, I tried to fathom what it was I wanted, or expected from this party. I'm coming to my end, was the only thought I could summon. But hadn't I thought this hundreds of times throughout my life? Possibly every other day. With an almost involuntary spasm, I felt inside my jacket, as if looking for something, and pulled out Helen's handwritten note. Ah, kindly Helen. When I mentioned going to France for a couple of weeks she'd written down a few places of interest I may like to visit. It was a sweet, even childish gesture, I thought at the time. After all, isn't Google everyone's best friend? Yet reading it now I see that she had listed the Grotte des Demoiselles as a place of interest, though surely not for the same reasons as me. I had a sudden memory of Helen telling me that her father had taught at the University of Toulouse. Perhaps writing down lists of places to go when she visited him as a child was a thing of significance. Kindly Helen. To be sat with her now, drinking tea by the sea...The cable car whirred along and I saw myself lunging for the wire cable. Would it shred my hands to pieces? Could I slow this thing with my own bare hands? And if I did, if I managed that without too much damage to the skin on my hands, would there be enough slack in the wire for me to hang myself? But why do that anyway? Who knows, I may even enjoy the party.