Somewhere in mid-life, I read Jenny Joseph’s poem, ‘Warning’, and laughed out loud.

‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple. With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.’

It’s a joyous ode to the freedom old age brings, a shrugging off of other people’s expectations. I understood it immediately.

As a young girl I just didn’t think about old people. My grandparents were the only seniors I knew. With them I was outwardly respectful but uninterested. If I thought about them at all, I might have felt pity for the limitations they lived with, physical frailty, near-invisibility, a limited future.

Simon has avoided me since I arrived a day and a half ago but tonight he leans across the table towards me, his green eyes intent, abandons his meal after a couple of bites and pelts me with questions while I try to eat the dinner Sarah has made us.

‘Did you see much of your aunt and uncle when you lived in Scotland? Where did they live? When did you first meet them? How did they meet each other?’ Each question comes

I lie awake in the darkness and laugh out loud. The sound wakens Stewart from a shallow sleep.

“What’s funny?”

“I’m happy,” I say and he murmurs something and sleeps again.

I don’t tell him I am laughing with delight because he’s here, in my bed,