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is irrelevant. Trying to hit his house with a firework rocket is reckless and potentially disastrous.’
    He had opened the door and was climbing out, so he delivered his response – his considered response – across the partly melted frost on the car roof. ‘That’s what Masson said. It’s poppycock, of course, as I told him. The chances that a small firework rocket will result in a conflagration are minuscule. Having strenuously reassured him that I had never had any intention of hitting the shed, I pointed out that it was only because the fool had left the door open and kept large bottles of white spirit and turps on the shelves – where they could have fallen off and smashed at any time – that a fire had started. Otherwise, I am convinced, there would have been little damage.’
    He slammed his door shut to emphasize his certainty, apparently under the impression that all my neighbours were deaf.
    As so often before, I had the distinct impression that normality was a pathetically fragile thing, easily broken by the lunacy of my ancient progenitor. I needed to get to bed and to sleep quickly, before the gates of insanity opened never to close again. As I let him in, I said tersely, ‘I only hope that Ada supports your story.’
    â€˜Don’t worry. She will.’

FIVE
    T he next day’s morning surgery dragged like a Wagner opera played andante. General Practice is about helping people as much as treating them, which means that you spend a lot of time just listening to people’s problems, their disappointments and their successes, even though they may walk through the door complaining of a cold, backache, pain in their belly or mouth ulcers. I can probably only effectively treat half of the medical conditions they bring to me, but I like to think that the psychological support I give them is just as valuable and this gives me great comfort. That morning, though, I was just too tired; by the time Samuel James Metcalfe Hocking hove into view, I was ready to surrender, the white flag unfurled and waving in the breeze.
    It wasn’t his fault. To be fair to him, he wasn’t a particularly regular customer – unlike some of my patients who seem to regard the surgery as a day centre – and when he did present, it was usually for a good reason. Unfortunately, on this day, it was with backache. Now, modern medicine has made fantastic advances in almost all areas, save one: this one. Moreover, it hasn’t progressed one whit. Why? Because to you the back is just a bit of your body you can’t see, the place where the limbs meet and that keeps your head well above your bottom. To a doctor, the back is an incredibly complicated musculo-skeleto-neural structure that we don’t really understand. Patients are completely incapable of appreciating why, when all they’ve got is a simple problem, I rarely seem to have a simple answer.
    I knew at once what he was going to say, could see it written in his stiff posture, the tightness of his face. ‘I can barely get out of bed in the morning.’
    It took him a good sixty seconds to lower himself into the chair, all the while his face an eloquent testament to the pain he was in. He had a broad face with light-blue eyes and laugh lines around his mouth.
    â€˜When did it start?’
    â€˜About two days ago.’
    â€˜What were you doing when it started?’
    He shrugged. ‘Work, I suppose.’
    â€˜Does that involve a lot of lifting?’
    He frowned. ‘Of course.’ This was said as if I should have known. When I looked through his notes, I saw that he was a baker.
    â€˜A master baker,’ he corrected me when I confirmed it with him; clearly, in his eyes, there was quite a social chasm between mere bakers and the masters of the art.
    â€˜And that involves lifting what?’
    â€˜Dough, and lots of it.’
    Obvious, really.
    â€˜Have you ever had back trouble