by Angela Wright
I think my luck may have run out at last. I feel a trickle of cold sweat down my spine and my old ticker bangs alarmingly in my chest. My tongue sticks to the roof of my dry mouth.
I am eighty-five and have been playing the ‘old card’ for several years now. This means my extreme age has given me the chance to act with impunity. To do all those things I have always longed to do but never had the nerve to. I am liberated from the shackles of everyday niceties. I am indulged and regarded as eccentric.
But perhaps shoplifting was a step too far. I feel the firm, solid hand of the security guard on my shoulder as I attempt to leave the supermarket with my booty. Never mind, I will plead forgetfulness. I am sure my ‘old card’ won’t let me down.