She was sitting on the little wall outside the cyclist and mother of Ron/Reg the cat. Her hands were gripped over her stick and she was staring up at the sun. I said hello and commented on the loveliness of the weather. She looked up at me her eyes missing me, her head turned in slightly the wrong direction. I told her who I was, using his name as a way in. She remembered and asked about the drawing. I used to be rather alarmed by her. I’m not now. I touched her shoulder, her hair, as soft as a babes. Can I draw you again? I asked. Of course, she said, any time. I only wish I was more responsive, she said. Oh, you are, I said. You are perfect. And you are.
