Why am I here? This is awful. What’s happened to me? I don’t like it. Why did I have to leave my little old cottage and beautiful garden, and the neighbours who were real friends? I was so happy there, and now I’m in a flat in an ugly modern building that calls itself a retirement home. Friends visit and say, “It’s so clean and warm! And it’s all on the level!” Well, my house was warm (in parts) and cleanish. And I loved walking up and down in my hilly town.

There are a lot of other women here, and a handful of men. Every day in the entrance hall there is a pile of newspapers ordered by residents. I saw that most of them were the Daily Mail and I shuddered. One fellow resident, smiling kindly, said to me, “Everyone here dresses so nicely.” I looked down at my trousers and well-worn, comfortable cardigan, and thought, “Oh God, I haven’t even got a single dress!”

I have been invited to join the bingo group and the crochet circle. In both cases, I declined – graciously, I hope. But then, the worst moment: someone publicly expressed her outrage at the way we are being invaded by refugees. My hackles rose immediately, but feebly I let them fall again. It required too much courage, just then, to give vent to my own passionate and contrary feelings on this subject. But the time will come.

Another friend, visiting, asked “What do you like most about living here?” I thought long and hard, and then answered truthfully: “I can’t think of anything at all.”

Later, I realised that my scattered children won’t need to worry so much now. I am safe and warm and clean.It can’t be that bad, can it?

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