Older people always fascinated me. I love their crinkly skin and lavender smelling clothes. The wistful looks and talking of days gone by keep me entertained for hours. As a child I always seemed to get along better with the senior citizens and at age seven my BFF was my next door neighbour Mrs Shaw. Every day, after school, I would run to her house and play chinese checkers, noughts and crosses and stare at the giant Moroccan carpet on her wall. There were things about her I adored like the barrette she wore in her hair, the lilac tint she asked for at the hairdressers and the way she only took baths, not showers. She was from an older school of thinking but had a heart so kind it would be universally recognised. A sepia photo of her husband playing the piano sat on her mantle piece. She was still hopelessly in love with him even though he passed away many years earlier. Despite her cheeriness I sensed the loneliness was palpable.
