"His cock snapped off in her arse," the porter said, wheeling the corpse into my morgue. "They've got her upstairs, still deciding whether to cry, laugh or shit." He waits, as usual, for me to smile at the strangeness of death.

One day, I’ll tell him the lesson of forty years in this room. There is no normal death. We are strange, fucked-up little monkies, you and I. Your definition of "normal" is in fact so small a thing as to have no useful application to life as it is lived by humans.

Or even death as it is died.