Becoming the Wistful Hunchback.

I waved at, and spoke nicely to, three little girls today, all being walked home from school by their dear mamas. None of them waved back or spoke, and it occurred to me that this could be the thin end of the wedge.

The next stage will be where they whimper and try to hide behind each other, while the happy little dogs accompanying the group and being led by the dear mamas will suddenly turn restive and bark at me aggressively. And it struck me that being the sort to frighten little girls is rather more disturbing than being aware of my mortality and knowing that I will have to die one day.

I sometimes wonder where I shall be when that day arrives. Will I still be living here, a capable and independent householder, or will I be in a hospital or rest home somewhere far from the mostly peaceful Shire? Perhaps it will be in the bell tower of the local church, and then little girls will tell stories about me far into the future when they’ve grown into dear mamas and grandmamas themselves.