Posted on 15 February 2011, 5:41

We sat together in her small flat; another pensioner with time on her hands.
Edna was worried by the road drilling outside and I wasn’t surprised. She had lived with it daily for the past two weeks; a relentless and nerve-jangling reverberation, making even conversation difficult. It would have driven me to despair and possibly violence.
‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ I said, aware I’d be glad to get away.
‘Oh, it’s not me I’m worried about,’ she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘It’s the poor man with the drill.’
‘The poor man with the drill?’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s he got to worry about?’
‘Well, fancy doing that for a job! I only have the racket for a few weeks; he has it every day of his life!’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, struggling to sound concerned.
But here was love freshly defined: love is putting your self in someone else’s shoes - even when they have a drill in their hands.

I like that Simon.