Pat
We meet in the cereal aisle.
"Bisto granules," I say.
"Crystalised ginger," he says.
We half-shrug, grin, then hurry apart in opposite directions to continue searching.
Pat is my lady's name. It's written in biro on a scrap of paper, pinned with a safety pin to her jacket. She's eighty-five, and tells me so. Her shopping list contains:
A packet of Barry's Tea.
A bottle of Fairy liquid.
A box of Cornflakes.
An 8-pack of Actimel.
Black plastic bin liners.
A packet of Antacids (fruit flavour)
A jar of coffee.
A tin of Bisto granules.
A box of washing powder.
(and a carton of Smoothie juice, which wasn't on the list)
She takes the list out of her pocket, puts it away, takes it out again. We worry that she might have gone over the limit. We discuss the merits of Bisto versus Knorr gravy. We engage another lady called Ursula in a search for a new type of worchester sauce with ketchup mixed in. We comment on how shocking it is that they don't have any free samples of whiskey this year.
It's an odd supermarket scene, but it happens every year. Busloads of elderly people are brought in and given vouchers for some shopping for Christmas, and they spend the next hour ordering around the hapless young folk on errands. Then we all sit at long tables in the local secondary school, eating cake and drinking tea until we can't move.
It sounds awful. It is stupendous.
Two men are standing out in the cold, smoking their cigarettes down to the butt-ends. "Ah shure there's no talent in there at all," one of them confides to me. "All past it at this stage, wobbly in the wrong places". "Would you look at you, you're only describing yourself!" the other cackles with a wink at me.
A small band strikes up in the corner. I ask someone up to dance, a sprightly gentleman who went to ballroom dancing classes when he was 19, even though all his friends laughed at the time. He tells me he still visits his old dance partner.
"Ninety-two. And she still remembers all the steps."
Ninety-two, I think to myself. That's something to aim for. I would like to be ninety-two and still remember the steps.
We continue to dance, while the band plays on.
Sometime later, Pat is on stage. She starts to sing. As she does every year, so she told me. I stop clearing the plates and biscuits, cups stacked in my arms.
Silent night. Holy night.
I remember one of the other volunteers, a man who has been coming for fifteen years. He says, you get to know the faces. He says, every year there's a face or two you don't see.
All is calm, all is bright.
Things change. Steps or uneveness in the ground are something you look out for, calculate how to overcome. Shoulders are there for leaning on. It is important to always know where your trolley is. A good bit of leftover cake should be put away for later. There's more cackling and lots of bantering abuse.
At the end of the night we're all embracing as they go out the door.
"See you next year."
"Please God," they all say. I'm not religious, have never known what the words mean, but I find myself saying it in unison.
Please God.
"Bisto granules," I say.
"Crystalised ginger," he says.
We half-shrug, grin, then hurry apart in opposite directions to continue searching.
Pat is my lady's name. It's written in biro on a scrap of paper, pinned with a safety pin to her jacket. She's eighty-five, and tells me so. Her shopping list contains:
A packet of Barry's Tea.
A bottle of Fairy liquid.
A box of Cornflakes.
An 8-pack of Actimel.
Black plastic bin liners.
A packet of Antacids (fruit flavour)
A jar of coffee.
A tin of Bisto granules.
A box of washing powder.
(and a carton of Smoothie juice, which wasn't on the list)
She takes the list out of her pocket, puts it away, takes it out again. We worry that she might have gone over the limit. We discuss the merits of Bisto versus Knorr gravy. We engage another lady called Ursula in a search for a new type of worchester sauce with ketchup mixed in. We comment on how shocking it is that they don't have any free samples of whiskey this year.
It's an odd supermarket scene, but it happens every year. Busloads of elderly people are brought in and given vouchers for some shopping for Christmas, and they spend the next hour ordering around the hapless young folk on errands. Then we all sit at long tables in the local secondary school, eating cake and drinking tea until we can't move.
It sounds awful. It is stupendous.
Two men are standing out in the cold, smoking their cigarettes down to the butt-ends. "Ah shure there's no talent in there at all," one of them confides to me. "All past it at this stage, wobbly in the wrong places". "Would you look at you, you're only describing yourself!" the other cackles with a wink at me.
A small band strikes up in the corner. I ask someone up to dance, a sprightly gentleman who went to ballroom dancing classes when he was 19, even though all his friends laughed at the time. He tells me he still visits his old dance partner.
"Ninety-two. And she still remembers all the steps."
Ninety-two, I think to myself. That's something to aim for. I would like to be ninety-two and still remember the steps.
We continue to dance, while the band plays on.
Sometime later, Pat is on stage. She starts to sing. As she does every year, so she told me. I stop clearing the plates and biscuits, cups stacked in my arms.
Silent night. Holy night.
I remember one of the other volunteers, a man who has been coming for fifteen years. He says, you get to know the faces. He says, every year there's a face or two you don't see.
All is calm, all is bright.
Things change. Steps or uneveness in the ground are something you look out for, calculate how to overcome. Shoulders are there for leaning on. It is important to always know where your trolley is. A good bit of leftover cake should be put away for later. There's more cackling and lots of bantering abuse.
At the end of the night we're all embracing as they go out the door.
"See you next year."
"Please God," they all say. I'm not religious, have never known what the words mean, but I find myself saying it in unison.
Please God.
posted by Riona at
12:56 AM
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