I’m at the pub meeting up with Marshall McLuhan to pick his brain about what’s been going on of late. He’s not been in good health, and as he sits at the bar, sipping scotch under the orange glow of incandescent bulbs, I notice that his left eye is entirely black. Not bruised; but black as the void. Whether it is stained, missing or cartoonishly dilated is not clear. Later he is lying down on a sofa, surrounded by hangers-on, gently dispensing aphorisms, and I’m keen to get some 1-2-1 time with him for all of the questions I have. 

Alas, the pub starts to fill and I am jostled about, even though he is sitting patiently wating for me. My wife comes to collect me, insistent that we are late to see a movie in an enormous new cinema. It is very busy, and I don’t get to say goodbye.