Saturday, 29 August 2015


This is a terrible picture of an excellent cup of coffee. I bought it at The River House in Frome. (They also serve the most delicious food, and they do milkshakes. I can't stand places that don't do milkshakes. When you have children, sometimes milkshake is as essential as the wet wipes which will inevitably follow. But this post is not about children, or coffee, or milkshake, or isn't-Frome-lovely.)
As I waited for my coffee, an old lady came in. She had a walking stick tucked under her arm and she was trying to manage her purse without dropping it, or the stick. She was doing well; she'd done it before. She tapped her way to the counter with tiny little steps and placed her order. She was all cheerful and her eyes were bright, though her old frame was delicate. When she turned to sit down, I pulled out her chair for her, and warned her that it was a bit wobbly because of the uneven floor. She squeezed my arm and thanked me as she sat down. Then my coffee was ready and I took it and said goodbye. She thanked me again; so did her son,  who had joined her.
It would be stupid to try to use great strings of heavy words to describe the looks on their faces. They each expressed a different kind of gratitude. Let me leave it at that.
I left with tears pouring down my face. Tears for my Grandmother.

I've written this on my phone, in the cattle market yard, crying. Sorry for the mistakes which I can't see.

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