Two men knock on Mrs Power’s door, looking sad and tense. They tell her they have bad news, and ask her to sit down. They are sorry to tell her that her husband Michael has drowned in a vat of Guinness, at work, in the brewery that morning. Mrs Power is duly grief stricken and Michael’s mates fumble their condolences, trying to find something right to say.
“One thing, at least,” Mrs Power blubbers – “Michael was very fond of the black stuff, and in some ways it was a better way to go than most others. And it must have been a fairly quick death – not protracted for months in a hospital.”
“Oh yes,” one of the men says. “Mind you, in point of fact it wasn’t as sudden a death as all that.
