He was upset by the heart operation—why François, who was younger than John? If anyone ought to have a rotten heart it should be him! He appeared to expect us to do something, or to be in some way responsible. His tone was reproachful: How had Tig and I allowed this to happen? Perhaps his grip on reality was already slipping. Had it ever been altogether firm? According to him it had. Reality was shite! Stuff reality, he could see it plainly, and the rest of us, living our banal, tawdry little lives and enjoying ourselves with our snouts in the trough, were wearing rose-coloured blinkers. Stuff
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