Clara sat by lace-curtained windows looking out at pretty gardens. She sipped warm tea from her plastic beaker, same as she did everyday. The TV blaring, but nobody watching. Russell Grant’s ‘Postcards’ was airing. He was trying to get his lard arse into some narrowboat somewhere in Ross-on-Wye, while simultaneously giving the day’s horoscopes. “…. and for all you sexy Scorpions out there, you’ll encounter a loved one from the past” Russell struggled before finally giving way to gravity, letting out a camp squeal as he slipped ungracefully from towpath to narrowboat deck. The moment passed unnoticed.

The semi circle of orthopaedic chairs in the TV lounge was full of old ladies in various stages of slumber, heads lolling onto their chests, cardigans gracing bony shoulders. They looked like featherless, baby sparrows that had tumbled from the nest; twisted bodies waiting for the inevitable.

The last of the afternoon sun warmed Clara’s wrinkled face; her once bright eyes now empty, soulless pools, where loneliness dwelt and despair came to bathe frequently. Occasionally, hope could be seen in those pools. Today it glimmered shyly, barely visible, yet it was there as she watched and waited.

At sunset, as rose and tangerine shadows enveloped the gardens, Clara saw from her laced window, Edward, her husband, waiting by the gate.

“Time to come home,” he whispered.

The beaker gently slipped from Clara’s hand, hitting the floor with a hollow thud. Matron picked it up, and seeing that all too familiar glazed look about the eyes, wheeled her out to a side room. The semi-circle of ladies stirred like sleepy chicks at twilight. One by one they will all fly home, but for now they can only dream of it.