T he last time I saw Sarah was when I stopped at her cottage on the way to catch the train to London. Things weren’t sounding good and I was concerned she may not still be alive when I returned home to Cumbria later that week. Sarah didn’t want to die in hospital or in a hospice and so remained at her home, adjacent to her parents’ house, where she was heroically cared for by her mother, a rota of her closest girlfriends and medical staff from the local hospital.
Sarah looked so ill — like a tiny, frail bird — but those big beautiful eyes of hers had not remotely lost their mischievous glint. “You won’t believe this,” Sarah said, peering out from her bed..
