Spare a thought for Bruce, that benign beast forever entombed in its lead lined basement with only Sir Elton John for company. As I settle my body onto the bench I try to imagine what they talk about when I’m not there.
The bunker is a busy place whilst the radiographers take their readings and cross-check their measurements. As soon as they leave and the heavy door clunks shut I begin to sink into my two-minute meditation. Then I hear the distinctive voice, crooning softly:
...why can’t we talk it over?
Sorry seems to be the hardest word.
Could it be that Elton and Bruce have had a tiff?