Inside, a business card—plain white—bore the following message: Get well soon, Eleanor—we are all thinking of you.
Love and best wishes from Bob and everyone at By Design xxx
I took the basket into the kitchen and put it on the table. Thinking of me.
The scent of a summer garden, sweet and heady, was released when I removed the cellophane.
They’d been thinking. Of me! I sat down and stroked the petals of a red gerbera, and I smiled.
Flowers placed carefully on the coffee table, I continued my slow progress around the flat,
and as I cleaned, I thought about what it meant to make a home. I didn’t have much experience to draw on.
I opened all of the windows, tuned the radio until I found some inoffensive music and scrubbed each room in turn.
Some of the stains in the carpet wouldn’t come out, but I managed to lift most of them.
I filled four black bags with rubbish—old crosswords, dried-out pens, ugly knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years.
I sorted out my bookshelf, making a pile to take (and in some cases, return) to the charity shop.
I’d recently finished reading a management tome which seemed to be aimed at psychopaths with no common sense
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