I’m a V-addict like everyone over seventy. It’s worse for us. We still remember what a New York strip tastes like and everything that isn’t a protein gel pack. That was before animal consumption became an indictable offence. Before the evacuations. Before we moved to spinning tin cans.
“Had enough?” The aspic-alist asks.
“Yeah,” I hand back my last request and lay down on the cold metal table.
She makes it quick, painless. Soon, I’ll be a hundred gel packs.