Leaving my comfortable but small top-floor one-bedroom flat that I live in, I push the door closed behind me, race down to my dear white J-reg fiesta, Daisy, rush back up to the flat to pick-up the car-keys before heading off to work. During the 10 minute drive with the CD playing in the background I find myself falling deeply into my thoughts. I haven't seen Paul this weekend. One of his mates organized a biking week-end, aimlessly riding a country road in South Wales with their leather gear on, small backpacks and tents. Not exactly my kind of weekend and I was not invited to take part anyway. A call wouldn't have taken much of his time though. I really wish he would remember I exist when he goes on his trips. If I comment on it, he'll get impatient, accusing me of nagging him, that I am not interested in biking or what they were up to anyway. Does he care about me really? I can't help wondering if I am not just the best at this time, but he is still keeping an eye out for an upgrade. I wonder whether he would dump me for the first available female biker he comes across? Is this what these weekends are about? A gang of men on a hunting weekend? In truth, I don't think Paul is looking for someone else, he probably couldn't be bothered.
I reach this hidden paradise where I spend my weekdays, and may well do so for the next 40 or so years (maybe I'd then qualify for a staff discount for the next 20?): the "Swan and Sparrow residence", the SS between you and me.
I park the car, I stop the engine and observe the mansion I am about to enter. The main building must have been a wonder in its prime. It now hosts the common rooms as well as offices, meeting rooms and all other facilities. The TV is on already, I can't yet see the screen but I can hear it through the open window on the ground floor. The smell of breakfast remains in the air. The 60s extension hosts the residents' rooms. Its design is everything that the main building is not: block-like, practical and plain! Most windows are open too. It's a nice warm day and the cleaning staff are instructed to do so, even though most residents dread a bit of fresh air, always wary that it may cause them to catch a cold!
The front garden is full of lovely flowers, nicely arranged in borders, pots and baskets, thanks to Pamela. 76-year-old Pamela Waterson joined the SS after 18 months on the waiting list. She was in no hurry to leave her own house but her son and daughter-in-law were worried about her living alone after her senile next-door neighbour tried to touch her backside while she was weeding. Not wanting to cause anyone any unnecessary concerns, and especially not her son, she did not argue and once again let him decide for her She resigned herself to spending her last days here though she is perfectly capable of coping with the burden of daily chores. Since she arrived, she has not mixed with any of the other pensioners, feeling that she had nothing to share with them. She is kind, she is shy, she reminds me so much of my own Nana.