It's hard for you to sit here and keep

your value.  You are at the mercy

of other people's whims.  'Come on'

says the boss.  'Get these residents outside!'

You look bewildered at his brusque

command, compress your lips as if not

quite ready to be addressed in this

peremptory way.  'It's fete day' I explain.

'We're supposed to go out and spend.'

I sell you the excitement of the tombola.

Convince you the um-pah of the band

will bring some new circulation to your

step.  'Meeting people will be such a

lovely change from sitting here.'

You look at me through the one frosted,

one clear lens of your glasses -

incredulous.  But you can't be bothered

to resist.  You withdraw all argument.

So up we get, and your stilted stride

carves up the rows of pop-socked legs,

this great flotilla of zimmers.  You

dig in your nails, fearing the raised

threshold.  'Where's my handbag?'

you wonder.  'Have I got the wherewithal?'

Coppers and half-crowns clink-clink

their ancient heads.  And they, like you,

must fear their loss of currency.