Snow

I have been reading about disengagement theory and how elderly people withdraw from society to prepare for the final disengagement: Death. It reminded me that I have left Lilian alone in her flat for several weeks, that I have been unable to engage with the creative process. It was only this morning whilst admiring the snow on the downs from the train window that I wondered what Lilian would think of the recent influx of snow that has hit London. She would certainly have a good view from her flat watching the children make snowmen, teenagers hurling snowballs at the passing cars. The snow like the bombs is bringing people together, finally she has something in common with her neighbours. It would remind her of her boyfriend Frank and how the icy cold of the snowball he had thrown trickled down her neck. How the chase had excited her and how warm his kiss had felt, his cheeks ruddy and fresh. I began to see Frank more clearly, tweedy in his dress sense, gangly yet handsome with clear honest eyes. She has a photograph of him from that day still zipped into the pocket of her handbag. I wondered how Lilian would get her fags. What with the buses being cancelled would Gwen be able to get all the way from Clapham Junction. Perhaps her new neighbours would invite her over to listen to Samba and eat some Brazilian feijoada instead of her Friday night chip supper. Are there still adventures to be had at 75? All it takes is snow on the downs and I can imagine Lilian laughing. They are dressing her hair with Pink ostrich feathers now. Time to get those keys tapping....