15th July: gossip with nana



            It feels a bit weird, but not shameful – I’m too old for shame - wearing the same siren red dress for breakfast that I wore for lunch and dinner, and even weirder when Brexit Bloke called me ‘darling’ and eye-boggling weird when I notice that the only available newspapers are The Daily Mail and The Telegraph.  Is this how the cloistered live?  I wish that one of my soul-mates would march in with a stack of Big Issues.

            Brexit walks me back to my van where we kiss, marking the end to an intense second and third date.  Bye, see you soon. Phew, the shagged-out butterfly can retreat to her cocoon. I strip off, pull the curtains and crawl under Georgie’s unicorn and ballet dancer duvet.
           
            My ninety-five-year old nana lives in Sheltered Accommodation in Stamford so, after a two-hour kip, I decide to visit her for coffee and confession.  She has a livelier past than me and amongst other stories tells me about one boyfriend of hers who would pinch her at the moment of orgasm.  Then there’s another friend of hers who would smear gravy around her drunk husband’s mouth when he fell asleep after the pub.
            “But why nana?” I ask.
            “So that when he woke he’d think he’d had his dinner.”

            I watch TV and eat individually wrapped Lindt chocolates with nana and then ask if I can stay the night with her in her double.  She’s fine with this and I am saved another night from my free-spirit self.  Before we go to bed I cut nana’s toe-nails.  Those chiropodists certainly earn their money.


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