In what couldn’t be worse timing, my phone rang as I negotiated the traffic congestion, which was, sadly, now part of my daily grind. A glance at the display on the dash showed it was my personal assistant, Ferdinand. I let it ring. Nothing he said to me would get me to the office any quicker. But he persisted, calling three more times before I answered.
‘Were you asleep?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘While I am here running the show?’
‘And you do a marvellous job running the show, Ferdie.’ He hates being called Ferdie. But I pay him extremely well, so he can put up with my foibles now and again.
‘The coroner has released your father’s body. The funeral director wants you to call in, to see her ― to plan the funeral.’
‘You told her my calendar was free this morning, didn’t you, Ferdie?’
‘
