As she sits reading a 'Bradley Walsh' column in a cheap magazine, she plays with the large, blue glass beads of her necklace, twisting them between her immaculately manicured, elderly fingers. I wonder what else she has touched throughout her long life: a wedding bouquet of soft, fresh flowers young as she was; her lover's tender skin; his tear-dusted eyelashes? Does her skin hold all these memories now, deep in the folds of time?