dandelionToday I met the loveliest 92-year-old named Pat Orchard.

She got so nervous about her age, really, that every few minutes she’d turn to me and say, "You really shouldn’t be talking to me, you should be meeting younger people."

"I want you to meet younger people."

"I’m the oldest person here."

We sat around the table having coffee and her friend – her hand injured by a "nameless" cat she is looking after, nameless because she refuses to call the cat by its "silly" name, Bubbles – looked at me sternly and said, "We haven’t lost our marbles."

Pat talked about her dogs, her grandniece ("No she doesn’t really need to look after me, I drive and do my own grocery shopping"), young women who are not punctual…hilarious.

Someone else remarked that the children around here were growing bigger.

Pat said, "Not me! I’m shrinking!"

The lady laughed, "You’re a shrinking violet, are you?"

And Pat replied, "No, more like a dandelion."

And, funny, when I introduced myself to her, told her my name, she looked at me a certain way, with hand gestures, "The flowers?"

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