THere’s an old woman who lives next door, her hair is different shades of blonde and she walks with a stick.  She doesn’t go out to work so she must be old, I think they’re called pensioners, her name is Mrs Wilson.  Sometimes I post a letter for her or bring some bread from the shop, she usually gives me two shillings.  I don’t know her Christian name but she always calls me Margaret, its actually my sister’s name but she gets us mixed up, my name is Pam.  Margaret used to do some shopping for her, she’s busy with her college work so now I do the shopping.

    Mrs Wilson is pretty small, I’m as tall as she is and I’m only eleven.  Mum says I’m growing out of my clothes far too quickly.  The old lady’s skirts almost reach to her ankles, she told me one day her bones are shrinking.  I’m not sure if that’s true, I think when you reach your full height you stay the same height till you die.  Mum said she must be in her seventies, we’ve lived here sixteen years and Mrs W. has always been a Pensioner.  Yesterday’s news said there are more and more pensioners and its costing the country a lot of money to keep them.  Perhaps we should put them all in the Workhouse, in history the teacher told us, along time ago, nearly a hundred years, when people were too ill or too old to work they had to go into the workhouse.  It was horrible just a bed in a room full of beds and no private space at all.  I would hate it!  In my room I have my computer, my mobile and my books and I do pretty much anything I want to do.  Its MY SPACE!!!


4 thoughts on “THE OLD WOMAN.

  1. Mrs. Wilson was one of the few left from the turn of the past Century. Probably from modest background. Friends too tired to visit her anymore. Sometimes she cries quietly in the night. I see my beloved Grandmother who took care me at the end of WW2 and thereafter. All our quiet ladies from the past now forgotten – or are they?

  2. They are not forgotten although they are no longer with us. I was fortunate to know two sets of grand-parents but they are long gone. I often think about childhood days, the first house I remember was bombed in 1943, fortunately everyone was in the air-raid shelter and we were all safe. My grand-father was an air-raid warden. When the raid stopped we were told to find somewhere else to stay. We went to stay with one of my great aunts.

  3. Goodness me….how glad I am that workhouses no longer exist. There are hundred’s of graves of children in Liverpool who ended up in them. What a marvelous post, I did enjoy it! YES!!! It’s YOUR SPACE….you earned it gal….enjoy!!!

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