The Little Sparrow
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“Maybe,” says Margaret, “when you see this place you’ll understand. It’s like Club Med! There’s a heated pool and a rec centre and a cocktail bar and everything. They have 24-hour room service!”
Andrew guffaws. “A cocktail bar? At a nursing home? What’s next? Happy Hour?”
"It's not a ‘nursing home,' Andrew, dear. It's a ‘Retirement Destination.'"
“A what?”
“It’s all about marketing, you see? Kids don’t feel half as bad sending their decrepit parents off to a ‘holiday club’.”
“Still. A cocktail bar?”
“Judy, do you see now why I can’t live with you two? I’m 86 bloody years old—”
“Language!” scolds Andrew.
"As I was saying, I'm 86 BLOODY years old, and if I want to spend the days swearing and drinking Pimm's and playing bloody strip poker, then I will do it WITHOUT the disapproving glare from the very boy whose bare bottom I used to smack for stealing my menthol cigarettes."
"That does sound quite lovely, Marge. If Andrew gets too strict with me, I shall come and spend a few days with you. We can drink cocktails together. Although I’m not sure about the strip poker ...”
Margaret pats Judy on the shoulder. “We all have our boundaries, dear.”
“Some fewer than others,” Andrew murmurs.
