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that of her cat,
who’d died two years before. She regretted now that she hadn’t got a new cat. She had been sure at the time that she was going to die within a week, which would have been hard on a cat,
although Irma had suggested that she could provide for it in her will.
    There had been an article in the newspaper about a Japanese robot cat used to take care of the elderly. It saved a lot of money because they didn’t need to pay an overworked carer to do
the caring. The grey, robotic-looking Japanese old people in the newspaper were sitting with the artificial cats in their laps. Siiri wondered why the cats had to be robots.
    ‘Surely real cats aren’t that expensive?’
    But then Irma started to count up how expensive taking care of a cat could be, probably much more expensive than an old person. Finland was full of defenders of animals and other activists, so
animal care was a carefully monitored activity. You had to give them a certain amount of space, sunlight, regular outings, species-appropriate stimuli, a varied diet, and other things that old
people could only dream of.
    ‘Even chickens are free and happy nowadays, thanks to the activists!’
    ‘I saw a dog-food store from the tram the other day, on Snellmaninkatu,’ Siiri said, and they laughed at the thought that there was a shop selling dog sausages in a spot where, when
they were young, there had been a butcher’s that sold only bones.
    ‘What are you going to wear for the funeral?’ Irma asked suddenly, as if you could wear anything at all to a funeral. Siiri had worn the same black wool dress to every funeral for
the past twelve years, but Irma had several to choose from and she wanted Siiri’s opinion on them.
    ‘I’ll give you a real fashion show!’ she said, disappearing into her bedroom, after first pouring Siiri a glass of red wine so that she wouldn’t get bored waiting. There
was a jangling sound from the wardrobe and Irma appeared in a loose black dress and a pillbox hat and twirled around.
    ‘It’s too big. You’ve shrunk,’ Siiri said.
    Irma stopped, put one foot in front of the other, and looked in the mirror over her shoulder dramatically.
    ‘You’re right.’
    It was strange how so many old people didn’t enjoy buying new clothes, because as they got older their bodies shrank and their clothes started to hang on them. Some people didn’t pay
any attention to their appearance at all once they got old. But Siiri thought it ought to be just the opposite – the older she got, the more well-groomed she wanted to be. She went to the
hairdresser’s every Wednesday and got a perm twice a year. It was hard to wash and set her hair herself, and besides, going to the hairdresser’s was just the kind of little
self-indulgence she loved most.
    ‘Yes, you even remember to pluck your chin hairs every morning,’ Irma agreed, looking at herself in the mirror.
    In the retirement home you saw far too many pitiful-looking old people. People who once were senior inspectors, police officers, nurses, contractors, teachers, and here they were dragging
themselves to singalongs in dirty tracksuits with bibs around their necks. Sometimes it felt like they’d lost all self-respect.
    You had to surrender eventually, but not necessarily give up altogether. Siiri and Irma had talked about this a lot. The world revolved too much around work, and once you didn’t have a job
any more it didn’t make you free, it just made you a slave to your age, stuck in an endless string of empty days. It was no wonder people their children’s age fought against growing old
with everything they had. There were pieces in the paper practically every day written by some person at retirement age declaring that they weren’t yet ready for the rocking chair.
    ‘What’s wrong with rocking chairs?’ Irma said. ‘I rock in my rocking chair every day, and it’s awfully pleasant. I heard on the radio that it’s good for your
brain. For children’s