by M Bulleyment
“Dreadful.
Absolutely mind-numbingly dreadful! What was Plumcake thinking of? Even by his
standards, that was dire. Rock around the clock? See you later, alligator? I’m
not a child. It’s my
legs that don’t work, not my brain.”
“Calm down, Cora, for
goodness sake. Now, you’ve got your chair stuck.”
Magda patiently manoeuvred the wheelchair through the door
and turned Cora around to face her.
“I’m sure Mr Plumrose thought that The Fun Fifties would be
just that. The Memory Corner residents loved it.”
“Precisely. It doesn’t matter what you give them, they’ll
have forgotten it a minute later, but some of us will have recurring nightmares
from that dreadful din. I can’t wait until my son’s back in the country and I
can leave this cultural desert. You’re the only person who keeps me sane in
this place, Magda.”
“You take everything so personally, Cora. Just relax. They
can’t please everyone here.”
“My one fear in life has always been to end up in a place
like this, where people’s idea of fun is to entertain you with ancient pop
music – that I loathed at the time – and pretend they’re helping you relive
happy, youthful memories. I mean… Oh, no.”
“Now, what?”
“We’ve had The
Fighting Forties; The Fun Fifties
(smog and rationing?) so please tell me we’re not having The Swinging Sixties. It’ll be The Beatles, won’t it and Memory
Corner’ll love every yellow-submarined note of it? Spare me.”
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