And then I saw her. It was Joyce, unarguably. She turned and smiled at someone behind her. Catching the light, her earrings gleamed. She turned back and I panicked, I had lost her. But she turned around once more. It was Joyce – moving and alive. I had found her. The power of the moving image hit me, the power to resurrect. I rewound the tape and timed Joyce’s appearance. Four seconds. I slowed the footage down and watched. One hundred frames, hundreds of dancing pixels. Joyce, who died alone in her bedsit, anonymous and seemingly forgotten, had once had her image transmitted live to millions of living rooms in the 61 countries where the show was broadcast.