Now I'm in my nineties

A gentle day, in which I age fifty years.

I have visions of myself moulded to the shape of a rocking chair, twitching a knitted rug over my knees, and complaining in the midst of my dementia about all the young men called Norman who are on the lookout to steal my oven gloves. I shall put drawing pins inside those gloves. All the Normans won't try twice.

Since I often equate growing older with misery, incontinence and a face that looks like it's been scoured by glaciation, the thought of going slowly and benignly mad in a rocking chair is quite comforting. I'm almost looking forward to it.

You will never guess the reason why I was sent into the future so kindly, so I shall tell you. It was the day I installed myself in a corner of the local toy library and sat there sewing up playbags. I can't explain those anymore. If you need to know about the playbags, go over here.

Tiger helped.

Together we sat there, stitch, stitch, stitch, aging by decades, withered and worn, quiet and gentle, talking to anyone who stopped by to listen.

I could imagine Tiger aged sixty, sitting next to me, complaining that I never stitch the handles on right and Norman's not going to come and steal the oven gloves. 'No, he's not mother', she'll say. Then she'll add, 'because we sold your house ten years ago and you haven't even got an oven, never mind about the oven gloves'.

Then I shan't do any more cooking, I'll say. Not ever, not ever.