I've just spend a fascinating afternoon with a lovely friend who will be sadly departing from this world much sooner than he should.
I've never talked to anyone with such ease about that . . . you know, the 'what happens at the end', thing.
He was told just over a year ago that he would be shuffling off, but he's decided to samba off: living it all to the full and he looks bloody amazing with it. He's got it sorted. Of course there are the bleak days, the rain-filled grey days or the days of such beauty you can't imagine not being on this turning planet, staring at an endless blue sky, a storm wracked sea-scape or a snow-capped mountain range.
Every day counts; you can see it in his eyes, his smile and the movement of his hands as he describes places, friends, family, music, art; dashing boredom to the floor and grinding it to dust.
He's worked out the end too.
Not many people do this. There's so much stacked against you: doctors, law, attitudes, yourself too: all those years where we talk about everything else down to the most intimate details of sex, childbirth, love, hate, but not death. Something to stuff to the back of the wardrobe in the mind: worry about it when it comes to it.
It's a thorny subject, but this afternoon I felt privileged to have had a heartfelt talk about IT, and I admire this man so much for having the courage to do what he's going to do, when he feels right about it, where he wants and with the people he wants around him
The answer is in his fridge: a small packet behind the cheese and the salad perhaps. His way out, under his control.