To my fellow travellers, I’m sure the package I’m carrying looks like a lunchbox. Circular, and dark blue, with a Tupperware-style lid, it is precisely the kind of vessel you’d transport a soup or salad in. I’ve even sealed it inside a freezer bag, to contain any leaks. Or smells.
I walk slowly and with care across Westminster Bridge, because any trip could prove disastrous. As I enter St Thomas’ Hospital and head for the infection department on the fifth floor, I realise the object I’m carrying is still warm, and, despite my preparations, I’m sure I can detect a faint whiff of something ripe, like camembert.
