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Susan had been dead for two years now, but he had still not got used to it, still got cheated by the cruel dreams in which she was there, they were laughing, kissing, sometimes even making love; the dreams, yes, old times, good times. Gone.

But not entirely gone. Henry could hear her now in the bathroom. It was all part of the PostDeanimation program hologram model PermaLife-7. Behind closed doors she made the sounds of ablutions, creating the illusion that she was still alive.

A few seconds later, at exactly 06.30 European Communal Time, the synthesised voice of the MinuteManager personal organiser kicked in: 'Good morning, Mr. & Mrs Garrick. It is Thursday, November 17th, 2045.'

Henry realised now what was wrong. Susan had got up before the alarm. She never got up before the alarm. Ever.

The MinuteManager continued breezily: 'Here are the headlines of today's online Telegraph that I think will interest you. I will bring you editorial updates as I come across them during the next hour. The Prime Minster is arriving at Stormont Castle this morning for a fresh round of peace talks...Parliament today will debate the first stage in the reduction of the House of Commons power in favour of government by consensus on the Internet...and delegates from the World Union of Concerned Scientists will today be pressing for international legislation limiting the cerebral capacity of sentient computers.'

'You're up early darling,' Henry said as Susan came back into the bedroom.

'Busy day,' she murmured in her gravelly voice, then began rummaging through her wardrobe, pausing every few moments to select a dress and hold it against herself in the mirror.

Breakfast, he thought. That was missing these days. She used to bring him breakfast in bed, on a tray. Tea, toast, cereal, a boiled egg. He was a creature of habit and she had prepared him the same breakfast every day of their marriage. He depended on her for everything, that's why he had wanted to keep her on after her death. 'Where's my breakfast?' he said grumpily. Except, somewhere in his addled memory an assortment of bytes of stored information arranged themselves into a message informing him he had not eaten breakfast for two years. But they failed to yield the information as to why not.

It was terrible but he had great difficulty remembering anything about Susan's death, he realised guiltily. It was as if he had stored the memory in some compartment and had forgotten where. One moment they had been contentedly married and the next moment she was no more. At least, not flesh and blood.

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