On mornings when Theresa didn’t have to work, I’d wake to hear her singing loudly to Carole King’s album Tapestry. She’d have the lyrics laid out before her, coming in always a second or two behind. “You’ve got a friend…a friend, oh baby.” Bent on her knees, her body rocking back and forth, the depths of her heartfelt emotion would pour from her mouth in an ear-splitting, eye-wincing, out-of-tune, soulful ballad.
‘How shall I put it, to a brain so much smaller and less clever than mine… The thing is, we are all, in a sense, supper. Walking, talking, breathing suppers, that’s what we are. Take you, for instance. YOU are about to be eaten by ME, so that makes you supper. That’s obvious. But even a murderous carnivore like myself will be a supper for worms one day. We’re all snatching precious moments from the peaceful jaws of time,’ said the Dragon cheerfully. ‘That’s why it’s so important,’ he continued, ‘for the supper to sing as beautifully as it can.’