Five Things They Never Told Me Read Online Free Page B

talk to any of the oldies!’ I scream at him, stamping towards the kitchen door. I don’t care any more – there’s nothing he can do to me that would be worse than this.
    ‘No, I can’t,’ agrees Dad, sounding incredibly calm in the face of my raging anger. He probably feels really smug and proud of himself – he thinks he’s found the perfect way to punish me and turn me into the sort of daughter that he really wants; the sort of daughter who will chat to old-age pensioners and make them cups of tea and learn to knit while all of her friends are having the summer of their lives.
    I will not talk to one single person in that stupid place
, I vow to myself as I stamp upstairs.
There is nothing that any lame old person could tell me that would be even a little bit interesting. They won’t understand anything about my life – they were twelve about a million years ago. I bet they don’t even remember anything except being old.

Martha
    There is nothing I hate more than old people. Constantly going on about their bad backs and their gammy hips and other medical problems that I have no desire to hear about. It never ceases to amaze me that the rest of society expects us to enjoy each other’s company, based purely on the commonality of us all being over the age of seventy-five. Pensioners are no different to teenagers in that respect. Some old people are nice; some of us are foul. Some are good-natured and are happy to spend their days knitting and chatting while others of us are grouchy and angry and would rather stab ourselves in the foot with a knitting needle than suffer the indignities of attempting to
knit one, purl one.
    And no. You do not get a prize for working out which group I belong to.
    I would like to say that I haven’t always been bad-tempered and troublesome but it wouldn’t be the truth. As a girl I was a constant source of worry and disappointment to my parents. I just didn’t understand why there had to be so many rules. Rules about who I could be friends with; rules about what I could wear. Rules about what time I had to be home.
    I found the last rule particularly difficult to abide by. I remember one evening having far too much fun to be home in time for my curfew. When I eventually returned my parents were furious. They said I wasn’t allowed to see my friends for three whole weeks, which frankly I thought was a bit much. Not that it spoilt my fun. I would send a note to Tommy telling him to meet me outside our garden at certain times and then I’d pretend to be going to bed. As soon as the bedroom door was closed I was out of the window, climbing down the roof of the outhouse and into the back garden. I wasn’t caught once.
    It’s just a shame that my climbing days are over. Life at Oak Hill would be a whole lot easier if I could sneak out of my window. At least I’d stand a fighting chance of that awful care worker not catching me in the act.
    If you ask me, it’s a total disgrace. I was born in 1929 and I believe I have enough years behind me to know what I want. And if, in my final months on this earth, I choose to smoke the occasional cigarette now and again then that is only my business. Oh, I’m not saying that smoking is a nice habit. I actually find it fairly unpleasant and there’s nothing worse than the sight of yellowed fingers and foul teeth. And apparently, it does something quite disgusting to your insides.
    No, it’s not that I think smoking is a particularly good idea. I just don’t like being told that I can’t do it. It’s the same with alcohol. In all honesty I’d prefer a nice cup of tea, but laying down ridiculous laws about what we can and cannot do just makes me cross. I’m too old to be told.
    So apparently, I am now officially on
strike one
. I am ‘upsetting the other residents’ with my militant behaviour. They have suggested that I may be happier elsewhere. That made me laugh. As if happiness is a necessary emotion. Three strikes and Oak Hill will