Notes

She dines there every day. Sometimes I catch her looking out from her spot in the window, sometimes she’s making her way there, all dressed to the nines, handbag held elegantly in the crook of her arm. She’s certainly a picture -singular in appearance, defying convention. Usually it’s lavender she wears. In fact, that’s all she ever wears: the same lavender tea party dress, modestly cut to below the knee; a lavender crepe tailored jacket; lavender court shoes with flesh coloured tights and always in a hat, always a hat, and gloves, as if she’s going to a posh do, like a wedding or a garden party at Buckingham Palace.
She likes to watch from her special place, precisely positioned to maximise her view of those passing by. I mustn’t watch her for too long else it would seem rude, but as I pass I observe her, knife and fork correctly held, delicately bringing a forkful of food to her thin lips and chewing mechanically before bringing her napkin to her mouth and dabbing gently at the corner in a habitual manner. She spots me then and I smile weakly, guilty at being caught staring. She glances blankly at me before returning to her half full plate of food.
How she must spend her days. Her whole morning must be governed by her religious lunchtime ritual.
She rises at eight in the silent house, makes her way to the gloom of the toilet and sits for an age in the silence, emptying her bladder; then into the still, spotless, cheerless kitchen to boil the kettle for the first cup of tea of the day. The kettle’s empty of course because you must always have fresh water in for tea - boiled just once for the best flavour. Fresh leaves in the pot too and don’t forget to warm it. Tea done and she’ll slowly and mechanically make her way, slippered and gowned, into the bathroom where the waiting flannel, left drying over the sink’s edge yesterday, will now be crisp and rough. She’ll open the curtains just enough to allow sufficient light to filter through the net clad windows then she’ll turn on the taps and fill the sink with warm water. The flannel will go in and she’ll swish it around efficiently before drawing it out and wringing it ready to rub on the soap she has ready. She’ll wipe her face, neck and decoulage gently and then re-apply the rinsed, wrung out flannel to remove the soapy residue before reaching it to the mirrored cabinet that she momentarily glances into, to select her day cream. She’ll twist open the top, and then, using the first three fingers on her right hand, scoop out a small amount. She’ll replace the lid and put it back onto the cabinet shelf, closing the door shut with a click. She’ll dab a little onto every part of her naked neck and face and then she’ll gently rub it in as she watches her movements in the mirror before her. Now she’s ready to dress.
Back into the bedroom, her clothes, laid out ready the previous evening will be waiting for her. Greying, washed out knickers and bra will be first, supporting the soft drooping folds of skin and thin flesh. Then the slip, like a sleeveless shroud around her withering frame, followed by the well -worn bobbled tights, for even though she has a drawer full of new undergarments, including tights, she refuses to replace them all for new until they’re completely worthless – she comes from an era of ‘make do and mend’ you know. Finally she’ll put on the dress, carefully sliding it over her head, its nylon lining shifting and shushing as she adjusts it around herself and draws up the zip.
To the curtains she’ll pad now, tugging them open to let in the morning light, filtered by the nets. Then to the dressing table to arrange her wispy, grey locks, brushing and touching and poking them into place carefully until they’re just so.
She’ll put on her slippers for now. It’s not time to go yet. She must wait.