Keith stood over the sink in his study or studio at the far end of the garden, tending to the wound on the back of his hand. This wound had been sustained in early March, when his knuckle came into unemphatic contact with a brick wall. The injury was now on its third scab, but he was still tending to it, dabbing it, blowing on it, cherishing it – his poor hand. These little hurts were like little pets or potted plants you were abruptly given the care of, needing to be fed or walked or watered. (p.62)
