Bakewell tart, anyone?
‘Bakewell tarts,’ Dad says when I answer the phone. ‘What about them?’ I say. ‘I’ve made one.’ ‘For us?’ ‘Yes. A big one. Can you pick it up? Before I eat it all.’ I promise…
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The show must go on
It’s Monday evening, almost seven o’clock, when I go upstairs to play my saxophone. On the TV downstairs, the prime minister is briefing the nation about rising coronavirus cases, local lockdowns, and the three-tier system.…
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The rule of six
‘Do not get me anything with seventy written on it,’ Mum says. ‘I don’t want reminding that I’m so old.’ ‘It’s your birthday,’ I say. ‘I don’t want a fuss.’ ‘You do.’ ‘I don’t.’ I…
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All insects great and small
‘How’s the new house?’ my auntie asks when I meet her at the garden centre for a brew. ‘It’s still standing,’ I say, thinking about the long snagging list that is getting longer by the…
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Woman-about-town
For the first time in five months, three weeks and two days, there’s somewhere I need to be. It’s written in the diary. Thursday 27th August — dentist, 9.30am. I start looking forward to it…
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