Flowers fade and die but memories of a good doctor will live forever

BECAUSE it’s a bank holiday Monday, nobody’s in a hurry.

Traffic is thin and moves slowly enough to give drivers the time to glance around and notice stuff they might otherwise miss.

Like the flowers outside the medical centre. Bunches held stiff in shiny cellophane, ankle-bound with brightly coloured ribbon, leaning against the glass door. Noticeable because the door is at the top of one of those wheelchair and buggy-friendly concrete hills — as you’d expect of a recently built primary care centre. One with a reception desk and shelves behind the receptionists neatly stacked with brown-enveloped files. One with nebulisers and scanners and, as well as the GP, a nurse with her own treatment room and waiting area.