a scarcity of goats

‘Can I see some identification?’
‘Of course’
I pull my ID card as far out on its elasticated string as it’ll go; Maud grabs it and pulls it closer, and I’m forced to step forwards, caught off-balance, like a fisherman surprised by a particularly feisty trout. She presses the card to the end of her nose and scrutinises it with her eyes shut, squeezed so tightly in fact that a little tear appears in each corner. ‘Well. That all seems to be in order,’ she says, letting it go with a snap. ‘So sorry about all that,’ she says, flapping her hands and lifting her chin in the air. ‘But one cannot be too careful. Especially these days.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Please. Go through to the living room. And do excuse the mess. I’m not normally such a slattern.’
‘I wouldn’t call it a mess. Or maybe only a creative mess.’
‘You’re kind. But no – let’s face it. Let’s call a mess a mess. And if any creativity comes of  it, I’ll be the proverbial monkey’s uncle. Or aunt, in this case.’
Maud feels her way to the armchair and plants herself squarely into it.
‘There!’ she says. ‘Good. Lovely. Now then. What can I do for you?’

Maud is as sharp as you could want in a ninety-five year old. When I ask her to demonstrate how she’ll put the eye drops in after her cataract operation, she shows me a faultless technique, tipping her head back and using the bridge of her nose to brace her hand against.
‘There!’ she says, blinking hard and rolling her eyes. ‘Happy?’
I tell her how impressed I am.
‘I’ve never seen anyone use their nose like that. Just out of interest – what line of work were you in?’
‘Originally? Well – I started off as a goatherd!’ she says, carefully placing the tube of eye drops on the table next to her, then lacing her wrinkled hands together in her lap. ‘Not London, of course. Yorkshire. There was a scarcity of goats in London after the war.’

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