‘Are we going to the seaside?’ she wondered,

as she chose which brooch to wear

and the care assistant tried to brush her sparse, unruly hair.

‘I used to ride the donkeys – this was long before the war,

with my little brother Walter – he was killed at Singapore.

Then later, me and Arthur spent a week there every year

We’d stay at Mrs Worthington’s on the seafront by the pier

Could you pass my yellow woollen gloves? - my hands are cold as ice.

This lady here’s from Zambia. She’s foreign, but very nice.

Our room would face the promenade – we loved that B&B.

We’d sneak our fish and chips in there, then gaze out at the sea.

Shall we paddle on the seashore? Build castles on the sand?

There I think I’m ready now, would you like to take my hand.

Are we going in a charabanc? Are we stopping on the way?’

So how to tell her gently we won’t be going there today.