Losing Me Read Free

child hunger or first-world poverty. Maybe she thought the way to deal with it was to hang the poor—or give them a kitten.
    She dunked Marmite soldiers into her boiled egg. The yolk wasn’t as runny as she liked it, but it was her own fault. She’d got so wound up about Facebook that she’d left it on the stove for too long. She wondered if it was possible to e-mail Mark Zuckerberg—not to complain about Pam et al., but about his ageist advertisements. She knew she’d never get around to it, but she hoped others might. He should be taken to task—left in no doubt that people of a certain age didn’t care to be reminded of their mortality over their morning boiled egg. They were perfectly capable of doing that for themselves, thank you very much. Maybe he was like the Apple chap. People had been able to e-mail him and apparently he even replied to a few. What was his name? Always wore black polo-necks. The one who died. For crying out loud, he’d been one of the most famous people on the planet. But his name escaped her. These days Barbara had a real problem remembering names—and not just people’s names. It was the same with objects.
    Last week it had been “colander.” She’d been simmering chicken joints and vegetables on the stove to make stock and needed to drain off the liquid. She’d taken the saucepan to the sink and asked her husband, Frank, if he would go to the cupboard and fetch her “the whatsit . . . you know . . . the strainy thing.”
    “That would be the colander,” Frank had said, getting up from behind his newspaper. He duly located it, handed it to his wife and went back to his newspaper. Meanwhile, Barbara poured the golden chicken stock into the colander. Then, for what must have been a full five seconds she stared into the sink, convinced that some kind of magic was about to reverse the calamity. But it didn’t. The last drops of stock flowed into the plughole. All she had left was a colander full of overcooked meat, bones and veg. Frank thought it was hilarious, but Barbara was close to tears. “I never forget to put a bowl under the colander. Never.”
    “Well, this time you did.”
    “Yes, because I’m going bloody senile.”
    “Oh, stop it. We’re all going bloody senile. The other day I found myself on the landing and I couldn’t remember if I’d just come upstairs or was heading down.”
    After the chicken stock debacle, they’d gotten changed for Jean’s party. It was her sixtieth birthday, and she’d got caterers in to do posh bangers and mustard mash, along with a trio of puddings. Frank put on his navy Paul Smith suit that they’d bought at an outlet mall last year. Barbara could never get over the effects good tailoring could have on the chunky male figure. He’d teamed the suit with a white button-down collared shirt, open at the neck, and trendy black suede brogues. When he sat down there was a glimpse of bright pink sock.
    “You know,” he said, looking at himself in the full-length mirror, “for a paunchy middle-aged git, I still scrub up OK.”
    She had to admit that he did. When he was at home he shuffled around the house in the baggy old jeans and jumpers with elbow holes that she threw out when he wasn’t looking, but when he went out he liked to look a bit sharp.
    “So, what about me? How do I look?” She was wearing a knee-length black tunic with a dramatic asymmetrical hem, over leggings and high-heeled boots.
    “Great. But you always do. Have I seen that top thing before?”
    “Only about a dozen times.”
    “Really? Well, I like it. Suits you.”
    As soon as they arrived at Jean’s, Frank disappeared to the loo. His prostate didn’t care for the cold weather.
    Barbara helped herself to a glass of seasonal mulled wine and went in search of the birthday girl. She spotted Jean’s sister, Val, on the other side of the packed room. They shouted “hi” and exchanged waves but couldn’t get close enough for a proper hello. From what