Over My Dead Body

by Maz Evans

My mother believed that women’s proclivity for apology robs us of our power. ‘Sorry is a meaningless transaction from the unimaginative to the undeserving,’ she insisted. ‘If you really care, send a hamper.’

I have regularly despaired watching intelligent, ambitious, independent women erase themselves to accommodate their partners.

‘But being alive is not the same as having a life. In youth, you fear death. In middle age, you fear dying. In old age, you fear life. So no. Death doesn’t scare me. Not half as much as living does.’

‘Help is what someone wants,’ sighs Winnie. ‘You can’t give it unless someone is willing to receive it.

‘Why did you never have children?’ Winnie asks. ‘Never really wanted them,’ I reply honestly. ‘Everyone always assumes there’s something wrong with you if you don’t have kids by your forties, but motherhood just never appealed to me.

The daft beggar is whooping like a Brexiteer at a Daily Mail coupon.

Elderly relatives are like gym memberships. They seem like a good idea and you visit enthusiastically the first few times. But, after a while, you just can’t be arsed. Even when you know you really should be and it would probably do you some good.