I get the call just after 7am, the call that part of me has been expecting for most of my adult life. My partner at the time, Helen, is in the kitchen when I walk in, holding the phone out to me. I take it from her as she watches me in the intense, quizzical way we monitor people who are about to receive Very Bad News. I have learnt that we are looking for their reaction, fearful of how it might go. Inwardly I say the words I’ve had occasion to use many times over the years, words my parents had often used too: oh, Gary. What have you done now?
I’m told that my little brother is in the intensive care unit at
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