AFTER returning from the specialist, Ling, though shaken, embraced the opportunity afforded by her terminal diagnosis to deliver a few home truths to her gathered family. From her matriarchal throne, an ancient recliner clad in its original plastic, she calmly went around the stunned room, cataloguing their individual failings. Such was her withering assault, it was later decided that her son Chen (‘a buffoon without the sense God gave a dog’) had got off lightest. Whether this unburdening was behind it no one could say, but, somewhat awkwardly, Ling had what doctors called a miraculous recovery. A rose returned to her cheeks.