Time for her weekly treat. Well at least she’d remembered all her shopping this time. Even remembered to take the list. That cheeky milkman, “Don’t you know what day it is, love?” She did now. Tuesday, that’s what it was. Tuesday, the day she paid the milkman, the day she had to go to the bank in town to pick up her pension. Pity they closed down the local Post Office. People not writing letters anymore, they said. Everything done on line whatever that might be. It used to be a nice little outing fetching her money from just down the road, talking to the other old ducks, sharing the moans and problems, finding out who else had passed on. She’d be the only one left soon of the old neighbourhood crowd. Not that they’d all died, some just moved away if they could when all those foreign strangers moved in with their funny way of dressing. Not that that was anything out of the ordinary any more the way young people dressed nowadays. Any old thing. Whatever happened to Sunday best? They did work hard though, those newcomers, you had to give them that even though she hated the peculiar smells of their cooking. Actually, to be honest, she hadn’t remembered what day it was, not till the milkman knocked. All the days are the same when you’re old and alone and afraid to go out she’d wanted to tell him but Reg wouldn’t have liked that. He wasn’t afraid even of them louts with their tattoos and their safety pins all over.” I expect they keep them handy in case they fall apart” he used to joke. Just as well he wasn’t around any more like when that Mr Walker down the road tried to stop them lads jumping all over his car. Gave him a proper working over, they did. In hospital a whole week they said. Never had that sort of nonsense in her young days. Never even bothered to lock the door and folks used to come in and out as they pleased – loan of a cup of sugar, love? Feeling poorly? Took in each other’s washing if it looked like rain. Now it was all locks and chains and instructions never to open the door to people unless they showed you identification. If in doubt, call the police. Not that anyone came now except sometimes that young woman from the social services and what did she understand? Probably wanted to put her away but she wasn’t going to, not likely. The only way she’d leave her home was feet first. Now where was she going? Oh yes, to that café for her weekly treat. She did enjoy their teas with the home- made cakes. She never baked one at home anymore. Well, with just herself, it wasn’t worth the trouble. Not many places in town had them anymore either, real home made cakes. That’s what made this café so popular. “Tea is it love?” said the lady behind the counter, not the regular one that Mabel always liked, the one who knew her by name. She scarcely heard her. The place was so full. Where could she sit? Flustered, she looked round in dismay. Oh, thank goodness, that table with the nice grey haired lady over there, that would do nicely. “Sorry love, its taken.” said the lady as Mabel placed her hand on the chair. And sure enough, her companion suddenly appeared and sat down again. Must have been to the ladies. Mabel had never known the place so packed. The only other place free was opposite a young man half hidden behind the page of a magazine he was reading but not hidden enough to miss the half- shaven head and stand up hair do. Mabel started to panic. “Now come on,” she told herself sharply, “He’s not likely to snatch your bag and make off in the middle of a café.” Use a bit of common, Reg would have said. Nevertheless, as soon as she’d sat down, she bent down and firmly wedged her handbag and her shopping between her feet. It gave her a view of his legs encased in khaki trousers and ending in very dirty, big boots sprawled under the table. Her panic increased. She fussed over her purchases and took time to compose herself. When she straightened up the waitress had been and the tea things were on the table – pot of tea, scone and a dainty looking sponge butterfly cake. Just like the kind she used to make for Reg. You cut the top off your cup cake, halved it, wedged both bits on top to look like wings and stuck them on firmly with butter icing. Lovely. She poured herself a cup. That’s better. The young man was still absorbed in his magazine. Looked like something complicated to do with engines or the like. She finished off the scone quickly, anticipating the cake. It looked delicious. She was just reaching out to pick it up when a large, hairy brown hand emerged from beneath the magazine, groped around and fastened on the cake. The nerve! Damn cheek! She’d show them she wasn’t going to be intimidated. She snatched the cake away and stuffed it in her mouth. The magazine dropped and an angry face with designer stubble emerged. The startled eyes of the young man met hers. He looked at the empty plate, at the determined old face with its moustache of butter cream and the “Right on, Gran,” he said, shrugged and went back to reading his article. A great feeling of triumph filled Mabel. Standing up to bullying. Reg would have been proud of her. She swallowed the last of the cake and wiped her mouth daintily. Never had anything tasted so good. Just time to get the bus. “No love, you’ve given me too much,” said the cashier handing her back some of her money when she went to pay her bill. “You only had the tea, not the cakes. You didn’t Don’t miss out on all the latest breaking news where you live. Here are four ways you can be sure you’ll be amongst the first to know what’s going on. 1) Make our website your homepage 2) Like our Facebook page 3) Follow us on Twitter 4) Register with us by clicking on ‘sign in’ (top right corner). 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