All about me
She was the kind of person one did not want to be stuck next to on a long train journey. She would go on about her thyroid, the increasing cholesterol level, painful arthritis, the mystery fever that struck last month. She could give detailed description of each to anyone who’d listen. Or not.
How she has garlic pills to control cholesterol, how they make her feel bloated and make her fart and burp at all times, how she has lost appetite, and can no longer smell or feel the tip of her fingers. Has she told them about the diabetes scare she had in February? And the time she fell down the stairs and twisted her ankles? Surely they don’t know about how they nearly removed her uterus? Yes, she’d like some coffee. With two sugars, please. But do they know that she can no longer tell between green and yellow? May be she’s going colour blind. She’s due for an eye-check up anyway. And what was that scar on the elbow? Oh, she has a similar one from when she spilt boiling milk on her arm.
Then one day she was run over by a truck and was killed instantly. It was exactly the kind of accident she would have loved to talk about.