She is a torso and a memory. There seem to be few other functions. The torso is crab-like and immobile, seated in a special chair beside the window of her room in Peace Haven, the Home for Distressed Gentlefolk in which she lives. The window looks out from the front of the house, so that she can see the main road. It’s not a busy road but it’s better than nothing. ‘They offered me a garden view at the back. They said, “Ooh, you’re a lucky one: a Back Room has just become available.” But I told them to stuff it. Well, I didn’t quite say that. Distressed Gentlefolk don’t say that kind of thing. But I told them I was quite happy with a Front Room.’ You can hear the capital letters in her discourse. Her large, moon face lights up and her mouth grabs hold of the words with gusto. ‘That way I can see what’s going on. Watch the milkman rather than just watching sparrows and blackbirds. Sparrows and blackbirds are all very well, but they aren’t Life, are they? They’re alive, but they aren’t Life.’ ‘Is the milkman?’ ‘I’ll bet the women on his milk round think he is.’ She laughs uproariously, as though at a joke of universal dimensions.
