I open my fridge and realize I have run out of milk and need to pop to the shop. I pull on my coat, pop on my shoes and as I open my front door I’m nearly deafened by a motorbike that screeches past. As I’m about to shut the door, I catch sight of Dorothy out of the corner of my eye. This time she is not watering her plants, she’s lying in the middle of the road, motionless.

‘Dorothy! Oh my god, Dorothy. Are you OK?’ I rush over to help her back onto her feet. ‘Quick, up you get. A car might come. Jesus.’

‘Oh, thank you sweetheart! Silly me! Thank you for helping. I will even forgive you for blaspheming,’ she says, heaving herself up against the weight of my arms. ‘I felt extremely dizzy – and then before I knew it, I was on the floor!’ She starts laughing heartily.

‘Gosh, I’m glad I saw you. Are you all right, do you want me to call anyone for you?’

‘No, it’s OK. I wouldn’t want to worry anyone. I’m alive and kicking,’ she says cheekily, back on her feet.

‘Do you have a walking stick?’

‘I do, but I hate it. Reminds me of how old I am. I don’t want to look old, darling.’

‘I think you should use it; you’d probably find it really helpful.’

‘Oh, I suppose I should,’ she sighs, huffily.

‘I was just thinking Dorothy, I should give you my number in case of emergencies.’

‘Oh that’s very kind, Olive. I promise I won’t pass it on to any young chaps I know.’

We both chuckle.

‘Why don’t you come in for a minute? I should give you mine, too. I don’t know my number off by heart. I could write it down though.’

I want to say no. I have things I need to do. But there’s something about Dorothy, and she’s obviously vulnerable at the moment. ‘Yes. Of course.’

I follow her into her house. She has an old patterned carpet in the hallway. It smells of TCP, a smell I find comforting as it immediately reminds me of my grandparents’ house. Dorothy opens a creaky drawer on a table next to the stairs with a very old-looking phone sitting on it. She takes out a tiny piece of paper with some numbers scribbled on it and puts on some very thick-lensed glasses to read it out.

I scribble down the numbers as she reads them out slowly, her hands shaking as she holds the piece of paper.

‘Would you like to stay for a cup of tea, dear? After all, it was so lovely of you to post the coffee voucher,’ she says, beaming.

I don’t have the heart to say no to her. ‘Sure! I can’t stay too long though.’

We both walk into her front room and I sit on an old small circular futon, a piece of furniture that looks like it might once have been the height of fashion. She has six different clocks all making different tick-tocking sounds. How does she not find that irritating? How does she sleep? I notice she has stacks of old VHS tapes piled up high next to a big old TV. She also has piles of stuffed address books next to her sofa, and stacks and stacks of thick envelopes with letters inside. There are picture frames perched on every surface; relics of Dorothy’s past. It’s like I’ve tumbled into an Alice in Wonderland of memories.