"And you have to keep two litres away from people..."

Here's the second in Maggie Redding's trio of stories about the residents of fictional Faradise Park coping with the very real Covid pandemic. Love life gets more complicated in lockdown.

 

ROOM FOR ROB?

The shelf was empty.

He came to a halt.

‘Janey!’ he called to the assistant.

‘If you’re after loo rolls, Tom they’re all gone.  We’ve had a rush on them.  I blame the Government.’

And he thought he had such a brilliant idea.  ‘And you have to keep two litres away from people.’ Janey added.

‘Two litres?’  Tom said, about to find humour in the situation.  More people were coming into the Co-op, so he left in a hurry.

Once outside, he was inspired by the sight of an approaching bus.  He ran to the bus stop, his arm sticking out to hail the driver.  Breathless, he sprang aboard, then had to search every pocket on him to find his bus pass, the fear growing, matching the driver’s impatience, that he had left it in the flat.  

‘Aah!  There it is!’  He slapped the bus pass before the driver then stumbled to sink onto a seat.  The bus rumbled its way to Sittenden, while Tom mentally rehearsed his route to all the supermarkets and cut-price stores he could recall.

Altogether he spent nearly two hours traipsing to and from these three supermarkets and two cut-price stores.  One supermarket had sold out of toilet rolls two others had a diminished stock.  Of the two cut-price stores, one had a good display, the other had few and by the time Tom left, none at all.  He had systematically filled a black plastic bag to capacity.  Fighting the breeze he staggered to the bus station for the return journey with this burden.  It was not easy.  The bag split slightly as he passed a folded pushchair on the bus, while he wrestled with his bus pass to stow it away safely.  By the time he alighted, outside Faradise Park, he was quite tired.  The stiff breeze had whipped up, it was vicious now, making his burden even more difficult to manage as he made his way up the drive.  He was close to the main door when he heard someone calling him from some distance behind him.  He turned.  That was his undoing.  His grip on the black plastic bag loosened.  The breeze wrestled it from him.  Toilet rolls spilled all over the front of the Park.  The voices behind him became laughter.  Trying to retrieve some of these toilet rolls he fell and stayed there on the grass.  He was totally exhausted.

Hester and Mel had been behind him, each with a large full carrier bag loaded with toilet rolls.  They helped recapture his shopping and his dignity.  From everywhere people appeared to help him.  Suspicion of their motives made his thanks sound less gallant.  They’d all want a share.  He supposed he would have to let people in need benefit from his enterprise.  Would he charge for them?  Honestly why couldn’t people be more self-responsible?

Mimi appeared, which pleased him.  She always understood his feelings, even the most stupid feelings.

As soon as Tom left on his errand to the Co-op, Mimi darted out and up to the second floor to Marjorie’s flat.  Marjorie was pleased to see her, but had consumed

most of what was left in the bottle of wine she had opened that morning.  Her cheeks were bright red.  They sat down, as they had earlier.

‘I wondered if you had any further thoughts?’

‘Not really,’ Marjorie said ‘sorry.’

‘You see,’ Mimi continue, ‘being embarrassed is not really a choice.  You either go and ask Lena, or you don’t want that.  I mean, after all, Lena has Izzie living with her and has for a while now.’

‘Are they, you know – together?’  Marjorie, looking for distraction spied Tom crossing the park.

‘He’s going to buy toilet rolls in case there’s a long lockdown,’ Mimi said.  ‘Let’s concentrate on Rob.  Yes, Lena and Izzie are an item.’

‘Really?  I never guessed.’

‘I think it’s not a subject for speculation.  Would you like to be able to do that?’

‘Rob move in?  Yes, I wouldn’t want to move into his flat.  I know that.  This flat is such a wonderful gift, it really is.  I don’t want to do anything to lose it.’

‘Go down and ask Lena, straight away.’

‘But I haven’t asked Rob yet.’

‘There won’t be any point in asking Rob if she says no, will there?’

‘No, I suppose not.’  Marjorie sat staring out of the window.  She noticed two figures plodding along the driveway.  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s Hester and Mel.’

‘Going shopping I expect. I expect. Possibly for toilet rolls.  Tom seemed obsessed by the possible shortage of toilet rolls.  I don’t know why.  I would have focussed on something else, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, long-life milk.’

* * *

Tom, struggling against the stiff breeze tried to make his way up the drive. People came to help him, but red-faced and defensive he did not want help.  Hester and Mel, also somewhere on the field, participating in this new sport, were laughing.  Hester, with her huge carrier bag, the enormous posh sort doled out by supermarkets as a bribe to gain custom and even loyalty, and the contents spilled.  

Mimi went to her aid.  Everyone else was helping Tom.  He, after all, had the most plunder.  Hester’s bag, Mimi noted, had not contained only toilet rolls.  Among those were a couple of packets of incontinence pads.  Mimi felt a pang of sorrow for Hester.  Everything happened to Hester.  Mimi grabbed the packets, shoved them into the carrier bag and disguised their presence with some packets of toilet rolls, then looked up at Hester to see if she realised Mimi had perceived her secret.  

Once up in Flat 4, Mimi made tea for the four friends.  They counted their harvest, as they insisted on calling it.

‘Mostly packets of four,’ Mel said.  ‘Some nines and a lot of odd ones, mostly yours, Tom, escapees from the black bag.  Altogether I reckon it is about one hundred toilet rolls.’

‘Is that all?’ Tom said, disappointed. ‘They won’t last long, will they?’

* * *

By late afternoon, Lena had observed that the chaos on the Park had cleared.  She was dealing with paperwork when Lucy Dean (her surname still not changed) appeared, breathless in the doorway of the office.

‘Lucy, hello.  How are things?’  Lena greeted her.

‘Not bad.’  Lucy edged her way into the office, she was now a full-time Care Assistant in Milton Faradise, the Extra Care extension.  She also, like Rob Hargreaves, was a regular volunteer to the Traveller’s Site.  They had been instrumental in helping to set up the permanent site, and had good relationships with the residents.  Daisy, Lucy’s particular protégée, at nearly fifteen, now attended Lucy’s once hated school.  

‘They are closing all the schools,’ Lucy said.  ‘Wouldn’t I have loved that?  What I need to know, Lena, is how will it affect my work, this lockdown?’

‘Not in the way it will affect schools,’ Lena replied.  ‘You should speak to Izzie about that.’  Izzie was the Senior Carer.  ‘She has all the information.  Don’t be afraid to confide in her if you have problems with the job.  And you might well have a few now.  Consult Rob about the Travellers and the Site.’  The phone rang.

‘I’ll leave you, Lena.  Just wanted to say hello.  And to tell you Daisy is going to do ‘O’ Levels next year.’

‘That’s wonderful.’  Lena turned her attention to the phone.

* * *

At two weeks into lockdown the residents of Faradise Park were beginning to be restless.  So were some of the staff.  

‘If I have any ore updates on Coronavirus’, Lena said, ‘from the Trust, I shall tear them up into little pieces’.  She shuffled irritably at papers on her desk.  A tall imposing red-head, Lena was middle-aged and under no circumstances now did she maintain a reassuring calm.  ‘It’s becoming ridiculous.  How can anyone expect older people to remember such details and changes?’

Izzie strolled across the office to her.  ‘You mean there’s more?’  She was a small, dark-haired, quiet woman.

‘Of course there are.  I expect it now.’

A tap on the door interrupted any thoughts either woman might have on Lockdown, Coronavirus or restless residents.

‘Come in,’ Lena called cheerfully.

Marjorie Lovelock entered as Izzie left.

‘Oh, thank goodness it’s you, Marjorie.  I feared it might be someone truly awful.’

Marjorie, who was feeling tense, relaxed and smiled as she was meant to do.  Lena gestured towards a chair adjacent to the desk.  ‘How can I help?’

‘I need to ask you something.’

‘About Coronavirus?  Go ahead.’

‘Well, it’s not really about Coronavirus.  But it’s about this wretched Lockdown.’  Marjorie’s breath was coming in nervous gasps.

‘Yes?’  Lena smiled and looked her in the eye.  She had a good idea of what was coming.  She had known Marjorie for over two years now, since she had arrived at Faradise Park.  Lena’s interest in the residents went beyond duty.

‘Go ahead,’ she said again to encourage the woman.  

Going ahead for Marjorie was far from easy.  ‘Lena, it’s like this.  I’ve – I’ve been seeing Rob Hargreaves for over two years now.  He lives in the village where he’s well-known and respected.  He had a lot to do with setting up the Traveller’s Site.’

Lena knew of Rob Hargreaves, his voluntary work at the Milton Stanwick Traveller’s Site and of the long-running relationship between him and Marjorie Lovelock.  She allowed Marjorie to finish her well-rehearsed speech.  

‘I’m asking you before I put the idea to him, just in case he doesn’t like it.’

‘Asking what precisely, Marjorie?’

‘If he could come to share my flat with me.’

‘I see,’ Lena said, observing Marjorie’s flaming face, ‘and where does this leave you if he doesn’t like it?’

‘I – I dread to think.’  Marjorie fiddled with the silk scarf looped around her neck.  ‘Certainly we would not be able to see each other for the duration of the Lockdown.’

‘You hadn’t thought of moving out of Faradise Park, and moving in with him?’

‘No.  Definitely not.  I value my little flat far too much.  It was like a gift from heaven.  I’d have to give it up, wouldn’t I?’

‘I’m glad.  I think Faradise Park has done a lot for you.  You most certainly would not be allowed to come back, the Trust does not look kindly on having two homes.  But let’s look at your favoured option, Rob coming here.  As you know residents coming here have to fulfil certain conditions.  We would have to work out if he qualified.’

‘And if he doesn’t qualify?’

‘That would be the end of the question.  Except for one circumstance.’

Marjorie suddenly sat up alert.  ‘What is that?’

‘If you were to marry.’

Marjorie stared, then burst into tears.  She stood up and made to leave.

‘Marjorie,’ Lena said, ‘send him to me if he is interested in moving in here.’

‘Don’t tell him that!’

‘I won’t.’  But Lena knew who would.

Author's note: 'Faradise Park does not exist, except in my imagination. It was my personal and inner response to a bad experience in a sheltered flats scheme where we were bullied out by homophobes.
The characters also do not exist and are not people who are real. There are three books about Faradise Park and the characters who live there:  Almost Paradise, Nothing Like Paradise and Planning for Paradise.'

Our lovely little prison

Have you been bingeing on piles of fiction or telly through this lockdown? So have we. Don't feel guilty - it's not like it's chocolate (oh, it was, was it?). Anyway, here's the first story in a tri-partite binge for our little blog: a mini series by Maggie Redding which wryly examines the effects of the pandemic on the population of a retirement home . 

Don't forget to come back next week for the second instalment: 'Room for Rob'.

FARADISE LOST IN LOCKDOWN - Part 1

by

Maggie Redding

‘Perish the thought!’  Tom Daly spoke with anger.

‘What’s the matter?’ his wife, Mimi, asked.

‘This!’  He was in the small hall of their retirement flat at Faradise Park.  A sheet of paper he had just tugged from the jaws of the letterbox was being waved to and fro.  ‘Remember when Hester referred to Faradise Park as our, ‘Lovely little Paradise?’

‘Vividly!  It was when the bonfire got out of control, wasn’t it?’

‘It won’t be our lovely little Paradise much longer.’

‘You mean there is going to be more building?’

‘No.  I mean this!’  He marched down the hall to the kitchen.  Mimi was making a pot of coffee.  ‘This- this – Corona Virus.  This notice.  We are going to have to go into  Lockdown from next Monday week.’

‘No one has got it here.’

‘That’s not the point.  Read it.  I can’t read it to you I’m too upset.’

He thrust the notice at her and strode away into the sitting room to throw himself onto the large, overstuffed sofa, which sighed under the impact.  A silence settled over the flat.  Mimi came into the sitting-room with two mugs of coffee.  

‘Come on, Tom.  Sit up.  It’s not as bad as you think.  No one’s ill.’

‘Thousands are,’  Tom argued.  ‘That’s the trouble.  A lot of us here at Faradise Park, might catch it.  In a place like this, it would go round like wildfire.  We are all doomed.’

Mimi let out a great guffaw.  Tom sat up to take his coffee.  She plomped down beside him.  ‘Stop panicking.  You’ve been watching Dad’s Army too much.  If we do what it says on the notice, we’ll be ok.’

‘Oh yeah!  Stay indoors, don’t go anywhere, don’t see anyone.’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’  

‘It’ll be for the whole of Spring, you’ll see.’  He put down his mug of coffee, leaped up and rushed over to the window.  The park, fresh and green, lay spread out before him.  Trees were coming into fresh, green leaf.  Daffodils lined the drive and beneath the boundary hedge, away to the entrance.  Blossom frothed in the hedgerow.  Birds chattered, flitted and swooped past the window.  In the Memorial Garden immediately below Tom and Mimi’s flat, spring bulbs bloomed, crocus, more daffodils, snowdrops.  

‘I don’t envy Lena if she has to manage us lot for the duration of this – virus,’ Mimi said.  

‘There are twice as many of us now.  Forty, if not more.’

‘But Izzie is assisting her.  Look Tom, relax, will you?  Do you remember the fuss and shock-horror from you when all the building was announced, and the Travellers' site was planned?  It turned out not to be so bad, didn’t it?’

Tom watched her face, wanting to argue, to maintain his point of view, but this was his beloved Mimi.  He hadn’t the heart to carry on with his objections.  They had been married for over a year.  Their first meeting occurred when they had both arrived at Faradise Park to take up residence in neighbouring flats.  Mimi, tall, black and beautiful had been slightly intimidating to the much shorter, less charismatic Tom.

Arguing was useless anyway.  He was about to say something to restore peace and harmony when a great din could be heard outside, in the corridor.  

‘No visitors, can you imagine?’  An irate Hester French from Flat Two, next-door-but-one, had realised some of the implications of the notice that had come through her letterbox.

‘Sounds as though Hester is none too happy,’ Tom observed.  ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one.’

A hostile ringing of the doorbell caused Tom and Mimi to exchange glances that were self-mocking but at the same time, relieved.

Tom hurried to the front door.  Hester stood there.  To Tom, her fury was so obvious that he was convinced for a moment that her short, grey hair was standing on end.

‘What on earth does Lena think she’s doing?’ demanded Hester, waving the notice and stepping into Flat Four before she’s even been invited.  She needed gently to push Tom aside.  The quieter Mel, Hester’s other half, followed her.  She smiled.  The four friends, Tom, Mimi, Hester and Mel had known each other since they had first arrived at Faradise Park. 

‘Our lovely little Paradise is going to become our lovely little prison,’ fumed Hester.

* * *

All those who lived at Faradise Park were up in arms, at the prospect of Lockdown, even the residents of the new block, referred to by Hester as Les Invalides, a droll reference by Francophile Hester to the famous Paris hospital.  These were the twenty new flats where people with ‘extra care’ needs lived independently, but with support for some of the health problems that arose in ageing.

‘What we need,’ Hester said, ‘is a council of war.’  

‘Council of war?’  Mimi said.  ‘There’s no use protesting.  If you watch the news on telly, you’ll realise it will happen everywhere.’  Mimi was wary of Hester in energetic mood.  Hester used to be depressed, but since she had been in touch with her daughter she had substituted depression for energy.  

‘I know that,’ Hester said.  ‘What I meant is we should plan, you know, make preparations.  If we’re only allowed out once day, that’s not a lot of shopping at the Co-op in the village.’

‘You’re right,’ Mel said. ‘Stock up before the 23rd of March’

‘Then all our outings won’t be just out of necessity.  We can go for a walk round the Park, up the hill, you know.....’ 

Everyone agreed.

‘Let’s start now,’ Tom said.  ‘I’ll go up to the Co-op and get a few toilet rolls.’

‘And hand sanitizer.’ 

An urgent ringing on the doorbell caused all four to startle.  Mimi rose to hobble to the front door.  She used a stick these days, as arthritis made walking painful.  It was, she explained, the result of her dancing, especially her ankle was most bothersome.  Since coming to Faradise Park she had injured her right ankle a few times.  

‘Oh!  Marjorie.  Hello.’

Marjorie Lovelock, Flat Seven stood there.  Mimi gazed at her.  Her red eyes suggested she had been crying.

‘Could you come for a chat, please, Mimi?’  a request Marjorie made occasionally.  Mimi was happy to lend an ear.  Marjorie was a bit of a baby, having led a very sheltered life until widowhood sent her to Faradise Park, with it’s sheltered flats for over sixties.

‘Of course.  Give me ten minutes.’

Marjorie attempted a smile.  ‘Thanks.  Really grateful.’

Mimi closed the door and went back to the sitting room.  ‘Marjorie looks a bit upset.  I said I’d go up to her flat in ten minutes.  Can we resume this later?’

‘The Council of Whatever?’ Hester said.  ‘Come to us.  Fairy cakes and wine.  Two o’clock.’

‘We can all have a good think ‘til then.’ Tom said.

* * *

‘Thanks for coming, Mimi.  I’m getting myself in a bit of a state.  Please sit down.  Is it too early for glass of wine?’

‘No.  Fine.  Do me good.’  Mimi sat facing her.

‘So, what’s bothering you, Marjorie?’

‘This.’  Marjorie waved the notice. It had come through her letter box earlier.  ‘We’ve all had one.’

‘Yes.  But it presents certain problems for me that I don’t think anyone else will have to contend with.’

Mimi raised big, startled eyes, thought for a few seconds, before exclaiming ‘Oh, of course!  Rob!’

‘Yes!’  Marjorie fairly bounced in her chair.  ‘Exactly!  We’ve been in this relationship for nearly two years now, and I thought it would be like this forever.  You know?  He’s been coming here two or three times a week, nipping up the backstairs and staying the night.  He leaves in the morning, creeping down the backstairs and goes back to his place in Milton Stanwick.  He leaves behind all the new building, like the extra care block, Milton Faradise, and the Travellers’ Site.  But now from March the 23rd he won’t be able to.  I don’t know what to do.’ She dabbed her eyes with a sodden tissue.  ‘Why don’t we have some of this,’ she said leaning forward to fill the glasses on the low table.  

Mimi lifted her glass.  ‘Cheers.  I do understand.  But tell me,’ she said sipping from her glass, ‘what would you really like to do?’

‘Really, carry on as we are.’

‘That’s impossible, isn’t it?  If he gets Covid 19 you’ll catch it and everyone else here will probably get it.  That’s a huge number of people.  Think about the guilt.’

‘That’s just what I have been doing, ever since this,’ and she waved the notice with contempt, ‘this came through the letterbox this morning.’

‘And the alternative?’

‘Split.’

‘Forever?’

‘At my age, it might well be forever.  For heaven’s sake, Mimi, I’ve only just at sixty years of age discovered a sex life.’  She laughed shamefacedly, ‘but also, I’ve never had anyone I’ve really loved.’

Mimi nodded.  ‘Better late than never.’

‘Of course.  You know.  But I don’t want it to be never, so soon.’

‘Do you think you could cope with the present situation?  Just carry on.’

‘I’m scared to.  I haven’t discussed it with Rob yet, of course, but as you said just now, suppose one of us gets Covid, the implications are horrendous.’

‘People could die,’ Mimi said, without mercy.  They sat in silence for some minutes, sipping wine.  Then Mimi said, ‘Of course, if he is willing, Rob could move in with you.’

Marjorie put down her glass, gave Mimi a horrified glance, her face flaming.  She sat with her head lowered ‘But that would mean asking Lena if he could come and live here in my flat.  I would be so embarrassed.’  Lena was the Manager of Faradise Park.

‘No need,’ Mimi said.  ‘Think about it.  You’d get used to it.  Look, I ought to go back, Tom will wonder where I’ve gone.  I’ll look in again later, after you’ve had a think.’  She rose stiffly, grasped her walking stick and limped from the flat feeling nearly as wretched as the weeping Marjorie was.

* * *

Tom shot out of the front door of flat four.  He was on an errand.  There had been reports of shortages.  He left Mimi behind, because it was too far for her to walk to the village and back.  This had been a recent development, but Mimi had not made much fuss about it, though he recognised her frustration and bad temper at being left behind.  To compensate on this particular occasion, he planned to execute the task – purchasing toilet rolls – as speedily as possible.

He was already slightly out of breath by the time he reached the main exit to Faradise Park.  A brisk walk across the parkland was chilling and disturbing.  It ruffled his hair, what there was of it.  The thought of being almost a prisoner and confined by that exit was alarming.  He preferred not to dwell on it and focused on his self-appointed errand. Along the main road he passed Dave and Caroline Miller’s extended bungalow.  Dave and Caroline were great supporters of Faradise Park although, with two-year-old twins – one named after Tom and one named after Mimi – their time was limited.  

He reached the village.  There seemed to be a lot of people and a slight atmosphere outside the Co-op.  Tom went straight into the shop, to the shelf which he knew would be stocked with toilet rolls. The shelf was empty.

I can't see myself in the mirror

Magenta Wise wrote this story, included in her 'Kill and Cure' collection, to illustrate how women are viewed in the patriarchy.

"Women have so many talents," says Magenta, "yet all too often are judged by how we look, rendering us invisible, especially as we get older. It also seems relevant regarding the covid virus, and how more isolated we have become as a result. I never thought I would write fiction, but one day I got an idea for a story, then another and so on. They are all in different genres and voices, some uplifting, some challenging, but hopefully all entertaining. In addition, I have published two collections of poems, a book about Archetypes and human consciousness, and I am working on another collection of stories. I use my own artwork for the covers."

Pay a visit to Magenta's author page author.to/MagentaWise

I’m Invisible

I can’t see myself in the mirror. On the occasion when I can get the attention of other people, I ask them if they can see me. They act as if I’m mad and say of course they can see me. But to my eyes, I’m not there. I look and there’s never anyone there. No matter how many times I peer and squint into the glass, whatever time of day it is, or the size, angle and location of the mirror, I see nothing but my surroundings. I’ve tried wearing different outfits, dresses, jeans, different coloured tops, but it makes no difference. As I’m told I do have a reflection, I suppose I’m not a vampire. I don’t feel like a vampire, I’m not one of those people who fantasises about them and wants to fall in love with one and drink blood and become one. In fact, I find all that kind of thing distasteful, and of course other people say they can see my reflection, so I’m definitely not a vampire. What am I though? Most of the time I’m invisible.

Sometimes I don’t care, but at other times I have what you could call a panic attack. I feel so scared, I want to cry and shout and scream, but I can’t catch enough breath and the sound of my thumping heart would probably drown me out anyway. You see, in spite of what people say, I’m not entirely convinced I’m actually here. I know that sounds insane, but for years now I’ve noticed that people ignore me. It really is as if they can’t see me. I can be standing in a shop waiting to be served and the sales assistants always attend to other people and leave me standing there. The other customers don’t seem to see me either. It’s the same in restaurants, I seat myself at a table and the waiters take orders from people at other tables and don’t notice me. In the past I would shout really loud to get attention, and so I must become visible when I try really hard, but these days I avoid going anywhere that necessitates other people seeing me. It’s too much like hard work. I’d probably have starved to death if it weren’t for those serve-yourself tills. I can go round the shop, whisk the barcodes through, enter my money or credit card, pack and leave without the stress of having to make myself seen.

I’ve always been like this. I was not what you would call a pretty child, with my mousy thin hair, small brown eyes and skinny body. The cute girls got all the attention, particularly the blonde blue-eyed ones who knew they were pretty because people were always telling them so. I noticed how they made the most of it and got more attention as a result. I wonder if they’re invisible too now, or have they retained some visible glamour? I had no choice but to fade into the background because I was so plain and uninteresting. My brain and any talents I might have never got a chance to develop because no one saw enough of me to care. Sad to say, I was not a late developer. I remained thin, mousy and uninteresting all through my teens and into adulthood.

Now I’m getting older I’m fading much more. Men had never found me attractive, so I didn’t get married and have children. The office work I did before I retired demanded little interaction with other people. They treated me like a machine, depositing piles of paper on my desk as they passed by, without so much as the minimum greeting, never mind a please or a thank you.

A few weeks ago I had one of my attacks in the street. It was not far from where I live and a neighbour actually saw me and took me to the local doctor. It was a pointless exercise, he wanted me to go on some kind of pills but unless they were magic make-me-visible pills, I didn’t think they’d do me any good. I thought the sleeping pills might come in handy though. There were years when I scrimped and saved every penny I had, which wasn’t very much because the rent, bills and food used up a big chink of my wages. Even so, I managed to accrue a decent amount, but it was never enough. I wanted cosmetic surgery, you see. I was sure it would help me to be seen. I wanted breast implants, a bit taken off my nose and my eyes widened. I have nice legs which I keep covered most of the time, but I intended to bring them out of hiding when I was glamorous. I dreamed of having a makeover once all the swelling had gone down and learn to apply makeup and get my hair dyed blond and permed to give it more volume. That’s a lost dream, and I’m worse off now than before as far as being invisible is concerned.

I can’t be bothered to look after myself at all. I stopped caring once I no longer had to go to work. The flat was a mess, which didn’t matter, seeing as no one ever visited me. I have no friends and I can’t blame people for not wanting to know me. Who wants to be seen with someone who’s invisible? Haha. That’s funny. It amuses me. I barely bother to eat anymore, I have no appetite. I have the occasional shower, I haven’t lost all my self-respect quite yet. During the last few weeks I’ve been getting everything in order. I’ve had a clear out, I’m getting rid of almost everything I own and I’ve made a will, which is with a solicitor. You may wonder, what does someone like me have that’s of any value to anyone. Well let me tell you, you may not be able to see me now, but you will come to know me very well once I’m gone altogether. You will wish you had known me and will yearn to see me.

This is because I have a secret. For years I’ve been writing novels and short stories and they’re very good. I might go as far as to say they’re a works of genius. Before you decide I’m delusional, let me tell you that I belong to several online writers’ groups and I’ve had superb feedback, and no, they weren’t just being nice. I’ve been approached by three different agents, all begging to represent me, with publishers lined up ready for a bidding war. I’m told that hundreds of thousands of pounds will be involved. Why don’t I grasp the opportunity you may ask? Well these days it’s not just about the work, it’s also about the author. They would want me to have my photograph taken and do book tours, signings and appear on radio and television. Once they see how insignificant I am, if they can see me at all, they’ll either drop me or try persuade me to allow someone else to pretend to be me. Someone young and attractive. They play these tricks. They’re only interested in money and exploiting people.

So I’ve decided to leave my work to a local animal sanctuary because I think that animals are so much nicer than people. Those who run it do such good work and are always struggling to keep going. My bequest will allow them to expand and to keep going for a long time. Along with my will, I’ve deposited my manuscripts and the letters from the agents to prove that my work is valuable. I know they’ll make a fortune. These will be handed over to the sanctuary on my demise. I’ve also written to the agents informing them of the whereabouts of my work. It’s up to the sanctuary which one they choose.

My being dead will fuel curiosity and make my work increasingly precious, as there won’t be any more. Artists are always worth more dead than alive. There will be no photographs of me, nothing at all to indicate who I was. I’ll be the mysterious woman who kept her gift under wraps and left no trace of herself, other than her name. It pleases me to think of other creatures benefiting from my slight presence here, only possible because I wasn’t born pretty.

I’ve had my shower and soon I’ll be ready. Most things are packed up and ready to go to charity. A van is coming today to collect the furniture and the few other pieces I own. The rest has gone in the bin. I’ve sent a letter to my doctor, the police and my solicitor, instructing them to come to my flat tomorrow with the greatest urgency. I mean to keep unpleasantness to a minimum. I do hate maggots and flies. All that is left is my bed, a pretty nightdress which I bought specially for tonight, a glass of water and the pills.