“Well then, I was totally messed up with that mother-fucker, idiot, birdbrain, cretin and stinker,” she says, her voice noticeably increasing in volume. “Fine I, of course, had been fucked, but he just continued to screw me, I don’t mean screwed-youknow-what, but messed with my head, we, of course shit on each other, did a hell of a number on each other, and that little dog constantly was afoot snarling. I had a total breakdown, so I took a slug of booze and took off for the seaside. Well, now I’m walking calmly along the seaside, as calmly as one can being in such a state. And I light up a smoke, and I see, thank God, there’s no one around. But then, just to be doubly sure, I sneak a look over my shoulder, which I always do, just to make certain. And, wouldn’t you know, directly in my footsteps some old biddy, naturally, is heading straight for me. Well, I scream of course, because that’s the last thing I need! I throw down my butt and take off. But she, though looking old, chases after me as if her pants were on fire. Well, and I too tear off. But she still tries to wave me down. Well, an absolute loony. Now I no longer know where to run or how long I can go on along the seashore. I turn toward the woods and slither down behind some shitty boulder. Of course I scrape and hurt myself and I think – that crazy bitch will soon finish me off. But she, gasping for breath, a tiny twerp, runs up to me and, guess what she asks me, Matilde?” Her colleague rolls her eyes. “Young ‘un, what time is it?”

Having finished her agitated ramble, the colleague gulps down a second glass of wine, while Matilde, trying to contain her giggles, almost sprays her wine over the table.

To calm her excited colleague, Matilde states her diagnosis, of which she herself is not too convinced – that these are only natural fears about the world outside, which in particularly tense moments may intensify ...

Finding herself alone on a side street, Matilde draws a relieved breath. In doing this salvation army work, she really should be more concerned for herself. But what a night! Her head slightly giddy from wine, she finds the air tenderly fragrant – sweet-smelling like much-washed laundry. Matilde cannot understand why people mess up their lives. For twenty years now, doctors quite regularly have cut or taken something out of her, concerned that this or that may become malignant. After every such time, she says:

“Thank-you, God, that You have taken another bit of me, because there is too much of me as it is ...”

How good life is, thinks Matilde, as she turns off into her dark street.