Oh, she’s so fucking old. How is she still clinging on to life? How?
“Morning Mrs Tidpot,” I call as I lug her shopping through to the kitchen.
She’s quilting as usual. Always bloody quilting. How she isn’t bored to death of it yet I don’t know.
“Working on that quilt again, are you?”
I put the kettle on and unpack the shopping, wondering who I could get to shoot me if I ever ended up quilting every damn day just to while away the seconds until death.