On Wednesday I visited my 92-year-old cousin, June, in her nursing home. I said I'd go before Christmas. Then it was in the New Year. I finally got there this week.

Physically she's bed-ridden, quite shrunken and frail, but she looked surprisingly good. I was pleased that she recognised me even with a mask on. I hadn't seen her since before lockdown ever began. Her mind was doing a bit of its own time travelling but she was happy.

We had some good laughs and few sad moments, and I felt sad when I looked at her when she was gazing into the distance.  But, as I said, she is very happy. Every thing we said reminded her of a nursery rhyme or ditty so we had a fine time singing together. 

I already find that it takes only a word to get me singing a song or ditty so goodness knows what I'll be like when I'm ninety-two. You won't be able to shut me up.

Me as baby with June, one of my godmothers, on the right

P.S. I've mentioned June before: until a few years ago everyone called her June; then she started using, what is apparently though I never knew, her first name of Olive.