Uma, as you can see, is on the brink. She has driven herself to this condition. She’s like the car owner who thinks: ‘The damned coolant leak can wait – my meeting can’t.’ Then, suddenly, everthing goes phut! There’s a loud hiss, followed by a fire! The car’s gone up in smoke. Meeting missed. Money drained, head strained, heart pained …
Your car or your body – in some ways they are the same. You can’t take either for granted, and there’s only so much misuse, overuse and abuse you can heap on them. And then, why kill yourself to live the good life?
See that woman lying on the cushy bed? Sure, she gets to watch Desperate Housewives on the wall-mounted plasma TV in her room, but her arm is connected to a glucose bottle, and the five-star luxury cannot change the sad fact that she is in a hospital, not a hotel. I could croon to her, like Peter Sarstedt: ‘Where do you go to my lovely … when you’re alone in your bed/Tell me the thoughts that surround you … I want to look inside your head …’ But I don’t need her to tell me. I know she’s wondering if it was ever worth the while … this dying to be rich/successful … whatever.
Uma nearly got there, too. But very fortunately for her, she er … bumped into me before she went over the edge.