Ravaged by age arced away from skies pavement slabs roll until grey becomes green. Beneath the metal flag she enters the shelter, contorting as she sits, aped by girning monkeys Who love their Grandma’s. Every Tuesday she waits, for the 9.12 to Quinton Road. To hear her name spoken kindly by David in the corner shop. Tesco’s is nearer and cheaper, full of cantering blurs beeps and name wearing do-gooder’s who lower there tone for the crippled, calling her ‘love’ if she’s lucky. As she enters the corner shop the old bell rings and heater rattles David holds the door softly speaking her name: ‘Hello Doris’. She crooks her neck to look him in the eyes, to greet him properly. Then her eyes damson at a sign on the wall ‘closing down sale’.