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They are too preoccupied
with matters of yesterday about which they tell the most incomprehensible things without ever thinking of stopping. But what's
happening now is most exceptional. Even the gentlemen of the
home notice this. And so the little lawn, hardly blessed with square
metres as it is, slowly runs full of old codgers who really shouldn't be outside at all any more on this no longer radiant September
Sunday morning. It has gone chillier and there's black ink in the
sky, boding rain.

    One of the old codgers has begun to remember his long-gone
years of boyhood. He has picked up a stone and a nasty sneer has
appeared around the toothless hole that is his mouth. His arm is
already drawn back, its purpose to take aim. Fortunately, the
doctor sees this just in time.
    'Don't do that, Mr Willems. No throwing. We're going to tackle
this quite differently.'
    He draws up his figure and calls out in a voice full of yielding
kindheartedness: 'Come on down out of that tree, Mr Koopman,
please. You know your chair's in the sunlounge - course you do.
That chair's yours by right. You're entitled to it after a life of hard
work. You have a cosy home here, you do, together with the other
gentlemen, haven't you?'
    This seems to fill Dirk with mirth once more. He's sprawled out
on his branch and he roars with laughter. Though he makes do
with gestures, these convey the insults well, nevertheless. In a
calculated mime he brings his paw to his nose, pinches it shut and
pulls a very disgusted face. Perhaps Mr Koopman wants to
indicate by this that it always stinks so in the home. And he begins
to scratch himself at length too. From time to time, he also holds
up something as if he wants to look at it as closely as possible in
the best light and this could well be a louse or a flea. That's
nonsense, of course. Malevolent insinuations - quite preposterous.
There are no infestations in the home. The ladies who collectively
bear responsibility for proper order in the home watch over this.
    'Come out of that tree, Mr Koopman.'
    The doctor's voice is a little more severe again. And he's really
put out. Gratitude's out of fashion, apparently. All old hat. It is
quite simply the duty of society to give proper care to people
who, because of their advanced age, are not capable of taking care
of themselves. Mr Koopman there on that branch is taking the
Michael a bit. It is of course nice that, his senile condition
notwithstanding, he develops so much initiative still, but there are
indeed limits. Mr Koopman is still quite capable of having a grasp
of his own behaviour and knowing what is allowed and what isn't.
Small naughtiness is part of things in the home. But this is not just
naughty any more.
    And yet the doctor decides to leave things at the word naughty, for this is quite current in the home. Highly functional when the
gents need to be called to order.

    'You're being a little bit naughty, Mr Koopman. You know,
don't you, that in that case we have to do things in your own
interest which are not pleasant for any of us. You are very
naughty if you continue to sit in that tree. And honestly there's no
nasty smell in the home. As for creepie-crawlies, that's just plain
nonsense. Now you come quickly out of that tree and you'll have
a lovely cup of coffee. It's your birthday, after all!'
    Now Mr Koopman roars with laughter very exaggeratedly
indeed. He lays it on thick, unsavourily so. It's not nice of him to
make the doctor's good intentions look so ridiculous. And now'
he's tapping his fingers against his forehead to make even plainer
what's wrong with the doctor.
    The good old orderly, meanwhile, has tried to drive the other
gentlemen back to the sunlounge.
    'Now just you go back inside then. No good will come of Dirk.
You wait and see. He'll be off to an asylum.'
    But it doesn't do much good. Understandably so, too. It's very
nice in the home; that's not the point. But it is very dull, too.