It’s always nice to hear my first name spoken aloud by a human voice too.
Apart from Social Work and the utility companies, sometimes a representative from one church or another
will call round to ask if I’ve welcomed Jesus into my life.
They don’t tend to enjoy debating the concept of proselytizing, I’ve found, which is disappointing.
Last year, a man came to deliver a Betterware catalog, which turned out to be a most enjoyable read.
I still regret not purchasing the spidercatcher, which really was a very ingenious device.
June Mullen declined my offer of a cup of tea as we returned to the living room,
and after sitting down on the sofa, she pulled my file from her briefcase.
It was several inches thick, held together precariously by a rubber band.
Some unknown hand had written OLIPHANT, ELEANOR, in marker pen on the top right-hand corner and dated it July 1987, the year of my birth.
The buff folder, tattered and stained, looked like a historical artifact.
“Heather’s handwriting is atrocious,” she muttered, running a manicured fingernail down the page at the top of the pile of papers.
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