Brookie

On Sunday I met somebody.

Brookie. She is 83. Lives on the Gower at the end of a disintegrating dirt track we got to by riding in the back of a pickup truck. Was wearing a cool hat, her trousers inside out ("it often happens"), and had a cane but was still agile enough to bend down and crawl into the guinea pig enclosure to pick them up and show us. Wherever she went she was surrounded by her four rescue dogs who obeyed her. She yelled at the hens, talked to her goats, ducks, horses, and cats. Showed us into her house and gave us some Pimms in the living room where we listened to some great jazz and talked ("Speak up girl, stop mumbling. I'm deaf as well as daft.") The hour was so vibrant and full of life.

I sat in awe of a real presence. I now have something to aspire to for when I am 83.