I’ve looked after people all my life. My mother. Three brothers. Years and years of it. Eighty eight years of it. It don’t feel right, me lying here. I’m the one supposed to be up and doing things. I don’t want to be a trouble to anyone. I don’t want to cause a fuss.
I look a fright. These are my work clothes. I was doing the cleaning. I can’t go out like this. The doctors won’t want to see me in this skirt. I knitted it years ago. The hems all gone to pot. At least it’s warm, though, which is more than I can say for your ambulance. Put that shoe on for me, will you?
I’m good with figures. That’s my thing. Turning them over in my head, bam. Six eights? Forty eight. I’ve always been good with figures. It just comes natural. Some people sing songs, some fix the electric. I’m good with figures.
It’s changed round here, though. I was born and brought up here, my mum, her mum, all the way back. It’s not nearly as good as it was. Them days, you shared it about. If you had a bit left over and your neighbours had nothing: There you go. It's yours. You looked out for each other. You kept each other going. Now, you look at the news and everywhere it’s the same - bad, bad, bad. The world He made, all gone bad. And then when you think about His Son. Sent down to help. What happens? Nailed to a cross. But the way I see it, you keep out of trouble, do your best, when it’s your time and you’re up there, standing in front of all them angels and whatnot, He’ll nod and go (thumbs up) You’re in, mate. The rest of them? Look out, that’s all I can say.
It’s coming. I can tell. Just looking out this window, I can tell.