My Aunty is not good at small talk…silences. Long unending silences. Silences. I’m not good with silences.
Get her on the right subject though, and she’s off.
She’ll talk incessantly about cancer. Admittedly it was stories which involved those who were close to her and I was moved of course. The first time I heard the numerous amount of stories, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they were numerous…I was moved. It’s always horrible to hear about people suffering and cancer is a word that puts the fear of God into any sensible person. We’ve all got them. Stories of survival and stories of not surviving. Surely there isn’t a person alive that hasn’t been affected by the big C.
But I have to say after the third repeat of ‘the cancer round’ I started to get a but fed up of it. I mean, what is it with people in their old age and stories about their friends who are dead or dying? My parents are terrible for it. I came home once after spending Christmas with them banging on about death incessantly and was so anxious I had to go and see a therapist.
We all know we’re gonna die but only the old are watching over their shoulders for it. The big guy with the sheaf about to tap them on the shoulder.
I was too polite to say anything.