I’m planning on laying into old people quite soon. So tonight the higher order of cosmic justice passed something under my radar, to re-arrange my smug face.
My parents live at the top of an old people block of flats, in a seaside town with the highest proportion of old people in the universe.
My father likes it because the residents call him ‘Sonny’ and my mother likes it because they remark on her peachy skin, in the 25 minutes it takes the lift to reach the ground floor, from the dizzy heights of the fifth.
Recently, a bad back and other encyclopeadic illnesses have rudely rendered her housebound.
A neighbouring couple have since taken it upon themselves to bring up all manner of flowers, gifts and poems, to speed her recovery.
These acts of kindness originate from an unspeakable aesthetic sensibility, being confusingly constructed from amnesiac objects, in an expression of workmanship patented by octogenarian present-givers: a melange of cherries and biscuits, bedded down in a cleaned Flora carton, wrapped in very old silk ribbon that no longer curls, and so on.
Just as my family were contemplating the next well-intentioned Frankenstein offering, the doorbell rang, whereupon a sweet soul made the drop.
It was a tiny antique glass, filled with delicate, white, garden flowers and foliage, with a faded lily-of-the-valley notelet.
On the back- penned in the shaky but painstakingly precise hand of a seriously decent old person, framed by two wiggly ‘V’s, representing flying birds- was this:
You ask me why I bring you flowers
Make things the way I do?
It’s just that you like pretty things
And appreciate them too