“Don’t worry love,” the woman at the writer’s group says to me, “my body doesn’t work either.”
I look at her. Last week has come up, wherein I caught the tiniest of colds and spent three days feeling too shit to do anything.
She is about 20 years older than me and has had both hips replaced. This is who I now a) socialise with and b) relate to.
“It’s my immune system,” I say, “although I did have bunion surgery ages ago.”
We arrived at the pub and I push open the door. There are fairy lights everwhere and it smells of Christmas tree and limes.
“Ooh,” I say, “lovely.”
We – the eight of us – sit down on some stools around a table. I feel slightly morose as I check my watch and realise I would normally be in bed by now, and the yawning begins shortly after.
The woman whose body doesn’t work pats my leg and I try not to flinch as I realise I essentially have an 80 year old’s body.
A woman in her late thirties maybe, scoots over to me on her stool. “Billygean,” she says.
“Yes!” I say.
“I absolutely – absolutely love your writing,” she says.
And that is rather nice to hear.
