We’re treated to the occasional performance here, you know;
a few of the residents will have a singsong in the recreation room if the mood takes them.
It really is... quite something.” She paused, and then I heard her snarl at someone.
“Will ah fuck, Jodi—ahm talkin tae ma lassie here, and ahm no gonnae curtail ma conversation for a wee skank like you.”
There was a pause. “No. Now fuck off.” She cleared her throat.
“Sorry about that, darling. She’s what’s known as a ‘junkie’—she and her similarly addicted friends were caught purloining perfume from Boots.
Midnight Heat by Beyoncé, would you believe.” She lowered her voice again.
“We’re not exactly talking criminal masterminds in here, darling—I think Professor Moriarty can rest easy for now.”
She laughed, a cocktail party tinkle—the light, bright sound of a Noel Coward character
enjoying an amusing exchange of bon mots on a wisteria-clad terrace.
I tried to move the conversation forward. “So... how are you, Mummy?”
“Fabulous darling, just fabulous. I’ve been ‘crafting’—some nice, well-meaning ladies have been teaching me how to embroider cushions.
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