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[Jan. 8th, 2011|03:26 am] |
Holt is a place where the independent schoolkids look like accountants (bored virgins, ties a little skewed, the load of knowledge (the banking, the chartered accounting you understand) held in the pose of their fathers). It is also a place where old people retire, and wait to die (the crossword, the keeping busy, the falling asleep in the afternoon with their mouths agape, the salt-of-the-earth inflection, the calls ..."I'm just calling to..well have you heard about... yes.. passed away on Christmas Eve etc etc"), and so my father woke up but couldn't get up and there I was with the prescription from the doctor in the aptieka, waiting to be served. But there's an old dame ahead of me about 90 years old, and
all she wants to do is talk. But she's found a thing of beauty to do it with. The young chemist's hands softly stroke the counter, her Norfolk accent pushes her thoughts up a little towards the end of the sentences, those thoughts that are just for the poor old dear, and not for us in the lengthening queue behind.
5 minutes pass, then 10. The old dear is rambling, wanting to know about this drug and then about that one, and then wanting to tell her about her old dead husband. There are few coughs and some shuffling from those in a hurry -
- or those who think they should be in a hurry, but I just want her to continue listening to her and watching her stroke the packets of medicine: to keep softly, slowly, and intently dealing with this poor old wreck. |
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