During this particular early spring morning, while sipping coffee from a large mug, Matilde examines herself critically in a mirror. She has just stepped out of a shower. Her marvellously groomed cat snoozes indolently on the bedside night table. Nothing is denied to this cat. Through the open window vapours of spring rise from the street that runs between her building and the church and waft into Matilde’s splendid apartment. She breathes them in with pleasure. There, down below, in the courtyard, the nameless lushes, pan-handlers and rubbies silently collect the bags and boxes containing things she no longer needs. The gaunt alley cats gather by the shed, because they know that Matilde will come out shortly and feed their hunger. This habit of Matilde’s guarantees respect and protection for her in the ghetto of the city. On her way to work, she notices that the city is getting more and more strait-laced and boring. That is why her ghetto has become even dearer to her heart. Besides, close by is the market and Matilde would not exchange for the world the haggling and, in the midst of a crowd wolfing down of fresh salty pickles, succulent dark blue plums or beefsteak tomatoes for the exhausting shopping in supermarkets.

She studies herself very critically. She is nearly fifty. From an objective point of view, her stomach could be flatter, but subjectively, she feels good about it as it is. Objectively, her breasts are no longer in their prime. But subjectively, she still does not wear a bra. Objectively, cellulite jiggles her thighs, but subjectively – they are quite nice, well-primed thighs, aging as they should. Her behind is no longer a cute little ass, but she does not see it anyway, because a second mirror is not near at hand. She has had it all – a family life with a leech of a man, children, lovers and soul mates, but now she lives for her own pleasure while she helps an army of poor younger wretches, who seek her out daily for advice on an innumerable number of important life questions. Sometimes she is rewarded. Once accidentally she turned on the Television programme Daudz laimes – Many Happy Returns. Its total silliness so improved her mood that she also wished to be congratulated like this. Her grateful army of poor wretches arranged it for her. After taking a first puff of a cigarette, a sherry glass in hand, her cat in her lap, she settled herself comfortably in the divan in front of the TV. The poems selected by grateful children alternated with loving dedications from wives and husbands, until her turn arrived. With her customary intonation the announcer started to read the poem: