I look forward to our calls to her each evening (well, afternoon really, but to early risers like me it feels like evening). Her voice differs in strength, some days she is clearly tired, but there is always that humour, that wryness, unexpected in one so reticent to push herself forward. She tells us the latest Bertie tales, reads from the Home’s weekly itinerary (is Banjo Brian on this week? we ask), talks about sport – be it rugby, cricket or football – reports on her walks and what she fell asleep to the night before, (was it Edwardian or Victorian Farm? ), reports on what she had for lunch (rat or something cheesy?) and whether it will be ham on brown that evening. She’s getting stronger on her legs and is managing to, as she says, ‘tootle’ around her room, meaning she can look in her drawers, rearrange and sort things. It is good. It allows her to have a little more control, to survey her treasures. I am so proud of her. She has never given up, never imploded though she had just cause to. She still laughs, makes us laugh – and clearly is a valued member of the Home. Sweet love.
