But I’m not just a human. I have a name. Margaret. I was Hawkins. Then Woodruff. I imagined us Hawkins as sailors, pirates. Woodruff. Wife. Mother. And me. A certain kind of woman. Of human. A teacher. I remember what they were like when I was a child, and then I became one. Was I wooden and strict? Was I dusty and precise?

It’s past now. Gone. Those children are all grown up, and no doubt have children of their own. Maybe have grandchildren by now, or could even be dead. What about my own children? I loved them, but did I tell them enough? Now look at them. What do they think about? Not me for sure. I’m the product of the most revolutionary experiment and my children don’t know what to say about it. Mortgaged minds they’ve got. Insured and mortgaged to death.

What shall I do? I could do anything now. I want my house back. It’s too late for that I suppose. I could buy another one. How much money have I got? John must tell me.

I’d be lonely again in a big house. All those days and days when no one comes. Not speaking to a soul, with the radio for company – though it’s not really. What am I for? I’m alive, more than ever – but why? I had purpose once. But now?

I could teach again, if they’d have me. I could tell the children much more now. Things they won’t hear from anyone else. I wouldn’t be allowed though, would I? I could tell them what it’s like to grow old, and get ignored. Forgotten. When you know so much more, as I do. It’s all in my head.

I can’t teach. There are so many rules, and I couldn’t obey them now. No. I don’t want to go through all that. What will I do? Stay here? There’s plenty of company, and it’s all right – and the food too. I could write a book. The story of my life. Who would care? It’s the ordinary life of an ordinary English person, living in the second half of the 20th century and the first half of the 21st. I could write about the most recent bit, I suppose. Yes, judging from that scrum of journalists there’d be interest. But God, what a labour, and if I’d be bored, wouldn’t the reader? Anyway. Of all forms of fiction autobiography is the most gratuitous – was it Tom Stoppard who said that? Yes.