An old man with a crutch is leaving the store on Gradiziol as I am entering it. I have seen him before, but not too often. He walks with great difficulty, but he appears most cheerful. I came at the tail end of his conversation with the young woman who tends the store. “I will sell the house,” he waves at her from the door and chuckles, “and then I will go to the nursing home!” “A cheerful fellow,” I smile when he closes the door. “Imagine,” she looks at me seriously and raises her eyebrows, “his wife has just been taken to hospital, but he speaks about her as though she is already dead!” That part of the story I had missed. “Where is his house?” I ask stupidly.