but really what i am trying to say is thank you for making me really think about this stuff because i don’t reckon i was thinking about it very much before. and its nice that i am now. its not just that. i guess what im really trying to do here is ask you again, this time kindly, wouldnt it make sense for us to meet IRL? please and thank you. what are you afraid of? i mean im not stupid. ive figured out youre a lot older and stuff. high flying city job hey?!! giveaway, silly. im a millennial remember? they dont make them like you for our generation. its OK. ive dated older guys before. listen, there is nothing you should worry about. except maybe if youre one of those mid-thirties dudes who are like, patchy bald. why dont guys just shave it all off when it gets to that point? once i went out with this late-twenties dude who just wasn’t gonna let go of the idea he still had a full head of hair and so he let the front bit grow as long as he possibly could and then he tied it all back into a teeny tiny ponytail on top of his head like a reverse comb-over. imagine when that fell apart during sex it was the saddest thing ever. so much for faking orgasms being a bad thing, i felt so bad i just had to give him something! no wonder i’m shit at dating.

another reason i am shit at dating is telling you about the guys i have fucked before we even meet up in person. i told you, you have nothing to worry about. you cant possibly do worse than that. come on babe, lets go on a bloody date.

OLIVES

Ruth

Now

The care home exists on two different planes, two intersecting maps, like a three-dimensional optical illusion. Staff and patients: blue lens you see one thing, red another. Our clients trawl the corridors like cruise liners, amenably, while all around them we are paddling busily, frantic with work.

It is 7 a.m. and Bex is running Mr Hancock’s jute bathmats through the dryer. They make a horrible sound and I’m sure this isn’t the way to do it, but unfortunately it’s the only option this morning. We’ve been so focused on Alanna’s party that we’ve forgotten that today is the first Sunday of the month: the preferred day for the less frequent visitors.

What if Miss Hancock turned up? We can’t risk welcoming her with dirty bathmats.

Emmy, the redheaded Lolita, scampers into the laundry room.

She says to Bex, ‘I see your boyfriend is expecting guests.’

‘He’s not my fucking boyfriend.’ Bex turns, her elbow squeaking against the white plate of the dryer.

‘Easy,’ says Emmy. ‘It’s a joke.’