I went to see my mother in hospital one Saturday. The cancer ward to which she had been admitted was on the tenth floor and her bed was beside a huge panoramic window. The view was of the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Bridge across the river, seen from above yet very close. The spring weather was exceptionally clear. The River Thames below us reflected the sunlight like polished steel and hurt my eyes. The city beyond was almost oppressive in its clarity – an unrelenting view of buildings, inhuman in scale and size – an inappropriate view, I thought, for somebody who was dying.
