She says ordering her groceries from Tesco's Online always makes her cry.
The miserable thick cut sliced ham
And sordid corned beef slices.
Always too much for one on their own.
Most of it thrown away.
I offer Grandma a hug.
No, no hugs now dear, she says.
She fears her brittle bones couldn't take the strain of a hug.
Though he's a good hugger, she says, that Gavin Westbrook . . .
Gareth Southgate grandma.
He's a good hugger.
I remember when her house was filled with the smell of fresh baking
And home cooking and caramel and stewed what's-it.
She bought all her vegetables fresh from the market then, no plastic.
That was when he was alive,
When the NHS promised he would live forever.
She watches a bit of telly but avoids the Soaps.
They're all crying and grieving and having a baby, she says.
Everyone's pregnant now, even the men !
Grandma, why did you move two hundred miles away ?
It was after her husband died.
It was the rapes dear, she says, and the crimes
And they were building a motorway through her house.
His grave is hundreds of miles away, she wails,
I don't talk to a soul here.
Strange how someone can be so isolated in such an overcrowded world.
She looks through the window at a scene she no longer understands.
Blows her nose, mustn't grumble, she says.
She is of the mustn't grumble generation
She's seen it all and stays quiet.