Later
I was just going out to the shops to get some more loo paper—Michelle had taken the last two rolls up to her room to do unspeakable things to her face with her “products”—when I bumped into Father Emmanuel, coming out of church after the service. A surge of resentment filled me as I said crossly: “You know, Father Emmanuel, whatever you say, I can hear all your hymns in my garden. All the words, everything.”
He broke into a smile and clasped my hand with his, all black knobbly fingers.
“Oh, Mrs. Sharp,” he said. “That is wonderful news! I am so glad you can share in our joy! That is jost wonderful!”
I was about to burst into a grouchy tirade, but looking at his beaming face, it was impossible not to respond with a smile.
“Just wonderful,” I repeated, trying it out. Then I found myself—corny or what?—giving him a hug.
Because it dawned on me that there are worse things than sitting out in the summer sunshine, in your sixties, with the sounds of “Amazing Grace” drenching the garden, with a real date with your first love on the horizon.
I know that seeing Archie will be friendly and funny and sexy and loving all at the same time. We both know it. Indeed, if there’s a slight blip it comes only when I think of the size of my minuscule bed. But as I write this, I remember: Michelle is moving out. And in her room there is a very large double bed.
So would I go so far as to say it is “jost wonderful”?
Well, I jost might.
No! I Don't Want to Join a Book Club: Diary of a Sixtieth Year Page 24