The coach navigates the narrow-laned London streets.
We pass Harrods, the Victoria and Albert, Hammersmith.
Outside London, rows of pretty houses.
England is always the same, or is it?
The seatbelt holds me in a tight grip.
Mobile phones ring, and conversations, too:
“We went to this restaurant last night. It was shit.”
“I should arrive about four ten.”
No, changes are everywhere. They happen with or without me.


Certificates, shopping bills, photographs, letters, birthday cards, advertisements, special offers, concessions. It’s amazing how much stuff you can find in one old woman’s home.


I threw earth on my mother today.
Three times, I shovelled earth onto a spade and let it fall onto a wooden box deep, deep down.
Rest in peace, Mum. Your memory is blessed.


Family photographs

Mum at 60, Mum at 95, Mum at 21, Mum at 14.
Dad, never younger than 45.
Grandma getting married or as an old lady.
“That little girl is L.” “No! It’s me!”
“Who’s that?” Nobody knows. Someone lost in the past.
A whole generation has just disappeared.