Yesterdays of their lives - Claudio

Let's go back to the day that Luis Ruiz, eminent Buenos Aires surgeon with a thriving cosmetic snip 'n' tuck business on the side, gasped as he slid an X-ray into the viewing machine. Doctor Ruiz attended the Cardinale family, one of Buenos Aires's wealthiest, for a retainer hefty enough to oblige him to jump when one of the Cardinale family said so. And several weeks ago Señor Cardinale had called him into the vast, oak-panelled office from where he ran a corned beef empire and told him that he was worried about his eighth son, Claudio Diego.

It wasn't because Claudio had deigned to follow the rest of his siblings into corned beef, although God knows that was a trial in itself. Nor was it because he still, at the age of 27, had not married, like the rest of his siblings, though Lord knows that was difficult to cope with, especially since it meant keeping him and his coke habit - not cheap, even if one was, if one could blow one's own trumpet, a true corned beef magnate.

No, it was his behaviour. For some months now, Senor Cardinale had noticed a vacant look taking up practically permanent residence on Claudio's usually alert physiognomy. On occasions a trickle of saliva could be observed making its way southwards from the corner of his mouth. One of the maids had found it necessary to mention, discreetly, to Senor that his niño had gone to sleep while executing a bowel movement. Something was very wrong and medical advice was urgently called for.

Secretly Doctor Ruiz felt that this behaviour was, for a congenitally slack-jawed rich kid loafer, hardly remarkable, but he had little choice in responding to Señor Cardinale's summons and being seen to do something responsible and serious about Claudio and his symptoms. 'We'll do a brain scan,' he announced, cheering up father no end, since this was action with a capital A, and meeting with an impassive stare from son. Which brings us sharply up to the X-ray, the viewing machine and the gasp.

Ruiz was not a bad doctor, and even he could see a rogue white blob in the globe of Claudio's X-rayed brain. He immediately phoned Cardinale and told him he needed a second opinion, then just as quickly phoned a brain specialist colleague who was in bed with his mistress but said he would have a look that afternoon. When he arrived, yawning, he slapped the X-ray into the machine and announced, after a careful perusal of the image, that there was definitely a particle of brain lodged in the (otherwise apparently empty) skull and it would have to come out. And he didn't think there'd be anyone in Argentina willing to do that one.

Apprised of the stuation, Señor Cardinale had no hesitation in accepting Ruiz's advice. Claudio would have to go to England, where this condition was very common, and where most hospitals would easily deal with it. 'I believe Wellminstow General would be an excellent choice,' suggested Ruiz, because his cousin had been an anaesthetist there once. And so Claudio was packed off to Mercy Ward, Wellminstow General for his operation. Which went well enough, except for when it came to the making good of his ruptured skull by putting in a protective plate. Traditionally a steel plate was used, and in more recent cases titanium, which was much lighter. However, that week, Wellminstow General had run out of both materials and no funds were going to be made available for several months. So the surgeon told his nurse to nip down to the canteen and get a paper plate, which he duly installed with a bit of Uhu and grout.

So when it rains, as it did on the day he slipped into Bargain Abasement to alleviate his boredom, Claudio becomes testy to say the least. Aggressive sometimes, yet slightly confused as moisture seeps through the paper plate in his head into his cranium. And his capacity to deal with people and relationships plummets through the floorboards. Which is why he wouldn't have noticed Runty's adoring looks; and why working in a hot and humid kitchen all day is a bad idea.