He'd felt this way before.
On one morning that would remain with him for the rest of his life he'd looked down at his feet and seen them as if they'd belonged to somebody else.
The feet carried his body down a corridor with prison grey tiles. They were on a mission, these feet of his that now seemed to belong to somebody else.
Where were they going? What were they thinking?
The destination turned out to be Bill's little white car with the rusting sills.
Had they, these feet that were once his but now seemed to belong to somebody else, gone completely mad? Because this really was madness. Had they forgotten the mortgage? The children?
The pile of incorrectly marked papers waited on the Head of Department's desk: a papery accusation and the feet weren't going to stick around and let Bill face the humiliation.