Here I am, busting into Suffolk, because I care.
Get old Grit, eh? She may be made up inside with bagfulls of rusty crooked nails, clanking metal, crushed glass, twisted iron and old snapped bones, but she has a Big Bro with a heart. Broken, too, with the flighty woman trouble, she who batflapped off to another man's embrace.
Tsk. These pensioners, they never learn.
I can offer only a listening ear and what comfort comes from sisters. He speaks, and I know, when we are older, the clock makes all loss worse. We are on the wrong side of time.
Family crisis then, to be wrapped into the coming educational days. Expect pictures instead. Fields stretching over Suffolk. Comfort for the unrepaired soul.
(Well, okay then. But it works for me.)