I think of them all, those women that are near, far or in my thoughts. They are mostly older than me, and in better financial circumstances. They have led full lives, raised families and some have had a professional life too. Some are a little ill, or infirm or have poor eyesight and hearing. Their lives are slower now. They have little they must do, or, I suspect, want to do. Some, I know, do a little of sitting. Some sleep in the afternoons. Some are tired. Some not so. I think about them and what it must be like to take that rest, to accept that state of having not very much to do and relishing it.
Downstairs she watches TV. She told him that Pointless is her favourite now that Eggheads and University Challenge is ‘off’. I even got a ‘pointless’ the other day, she told him. Pleased as punch no doubt. Her’s, out of all of them, is a unique case. She is 103. Her days are un-prescribed. There is nothing she must do for she is on borrowed time. So why not? Why not do fuck all?
Ukraine darkens our thoughts, always. I hold my breath for them in that steel plant. And yet, there is still joy. Handel can do it with his Sarabande. Upstairs I dance for the joy of it.
