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its purpose were the safety railings throughout the hallways and the wide doors that easily accommodated wheelchairs. But while the environs were as pleasant as you could hope for, I was still getting used to its inhabitants.
    Sure, over the years I’d made the usual comments about how wonderful it was to have the benefit of old people’s experience and time-tempered viewpoints. But I didn’t mean it. It had never been true in my experience. The only old person in my life, my gran, was nine parts venom shaken, not stirred, with one part martyr. A cantankerous martini in a dirty glass. I knew guilt was on the cards whenever I visited, but there was no way to prepare for the attack. She was a blaming ninja. Once I thought I’d got off, only to have her say as I climbed into the back seat for the ride home: ‘Now, B., be nice to your mother. You weren’t an easy birth, you know, and she’s still suffering.’ Honestly, home-baked cookies and hand-knitted jumpers didn’t take the sting off that for a nine-year-old.
    Despite my presence at the home, I was no Manolo-wearing Mother Theresa. I got tricked into volunteering by a dull woman at my colleague’s birthday dinner. She went on and on about her charity work, finally pausing in her self-deification long enough to ask me what kind works I did. Not ‘if’, but ‘what’. This sort of woman got right up my nose. It was one thing to be rich, but being so worthy made her insufferable. Given that I was pretty rubbish on the philanthropy front, and hated being shown up, and would probably never see the woman again, I lied. Noticing an old lady at the next table, I ruefully shook my head to indicate frustration at my inability to help mankind, and said that I’d been looking in vain for a care home to volunteer in. The angels chorused as she exclaimed that she volunteered at one in Wandsworth, where they were always looking for people to help. Lucky me.
    As it seemed churlish to decline to volunteer on the grounds that Wandsworth was a bit out of my way, I found myself south of the river every Saturday afternoon. At least I never had to see my benefactress. The saintly lady only descended on weekdays.
    ‘Hiya, B. How goes the war?’ That was Jim, speaking to me through his surgical mask. Jim wasn’t a doctor. He was a germophobe. His passionate views on cleanliness meant that he also wore surgical gloves and a paper suit. ‘Have you had your flu jab yet?’ He asked, as he did every time we met. I was sure he plotted each new case on a world map in his dining room. He was that kind of man.
    ‘Nope. I’ll do it soon, though.’
    ‘B., it’s important.’ He looked suspiciously over his shoulder, as if a wrinkled harbinger of death might be poised to lick him. ‘Flu is a killer. And we’re carers . We need to be protected against disease.’
    I had no doubt that his sleeves hid track marks from multiple flu jabs. Even fully inoculated, I knew he’d only speak to me through his mask next time. It was remarkable that he was in the care home at all. Actually, it was a wonder he left the house.
    I hurried towards Marjorie’s room. She was my favourite inmate. We weren’t supposed to have favourites but everybody did, right? It was only natural, like when parents said, ‘I love my children equally’ they really meant ‘I prefer that one over there’.
    She was as sharp as a pin, just physically frail. She was no old lemon, though. She really seemed to enjoy being at the home. ‘All my friends are dead,’ she’d cheerily announced upon our introduction. That wasn’t surprising for someone who knitted scarves for soldiers in World War II. ‘I can’t imagine a sadder thing than being left alone in that big old house,’ she’d continued in her erstwhile two-pack-a-day voice. ‘Give me chair aerobics any day!’ And I knew we would be friends. Not because I liked aerobics, or exercise of any kind, but because she was a natural optimist.
    ‘Hello, dear, how