Here’s a cheerful thought: we are all going to die. Some of my friends are under 70 but most, now I come to count them, are not. We have had our Biblical allocation of three score years and ten and then some. So imagine my surprise to discover how unprepared many of my senior crowd are for death. Last Will and Testament not signed, sock drawer not tidied, unfulfilled ambitions regretfully piled up and, frankly, panic.
This is not to minimise the horrors of a coronavirus death. It is, by all accounts, a struggle, literally, to the last breath. But even in healthier times our end days are likely to be attended by distress and indignities. It’s granted to very few of us to fall peacefully and permanently asleep in an armchair after a good lunch with our loved ones.