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- Albert, in front of a scrap of mirror in his bedroom, brushed his hair furiously. It was white. At least, long ago it was white. Now it was the colour of a tobacco addict's index finger.
- 'It's my duty, that's what it is,' he muttered. 'Don't know where he'd be without me. Maybe he does remember the future, but he always gets it wrong! Oh, he can go on worrying about the eternal verities, but who has to sort it out when all's said and done . . . Muggins, that's who.'
- ***
- Soul Music - p194
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