Someone was walking behind me wearing squeaky shoes. I thought it was my own shoes at first, and marvelled at the slight lag between my steps and the rubbery complaint of moist soles against highly polished floors. "What's happened?" I thought. "Is this how it ends? Am I on my way somewhere, leaving this life, this utterly confusing life?"

I was frightened but also intrigued and, I have to confess, a little relieved—no, I don't mean to say that—I meant something like "looking forward to a rest". You do get tired around here, let's be honest. It was as if someone had suggested a camping holiday in some remote region, and I had no idea what sort of discomfort might be in store but felt that at least it would be a vacation. In preparing for a vacation you have to tie up all sorts of last-minute details, you run around town doing things, talking to people, arranging for plants to be watered, you do some packing. Suddenly you realise, all this stuff—that's my life. Other than this there's nothing.

The person walking behind me ... this might be interesting, mightn't it?