23rd April. Futureshock.

My brother is busy with one of those rows of seven clear plastic boxes with the flip up lids that your GP will give you when you get a bit older, filling each one in turn with the same number and variety of pills that look like Smarties and Tic-Tacs.

"Is that your 5 -a- day?" I ask wittily.

"No,  7-a-fucking-day."