and meditatively. I like the good stuff. I would rather have a small quantity of the good stuff than an entire chocolate bar of the waxy substitute which calls itself chocolate. Fussy? Yes. I also like having an excuse to buy chocolate.
Yesterday I had an excuse to buy chocolate. I had a chance to take an hour out of the day and see my elderly friend who has just moved into a nursing home. I went and bought chocolate for her. She likes chocolate. She is thin and needs chocolate. I bought her dark chocolate. It is supposed to be better for you. It is also the sort she prefers.
This nursing home is new to me - but terribly familiar in other ways. I have to check in at the front desk first. Security is everywhere these days. "May I please visit..." Am I a relation? No, I am a friend. I am on her visitor list. I am sent off down one of those wide corridors that accommodate walkers and wheelchairs and have nice handrails for those of us who are mobility challenged. It occurs to me as I go that I could actually be anyone at all. I was not asked for proof positive that I am the person I said I was.
I reach the nurse' s station and, as instructed, tell them I am there and who I am looking for. Ah yes, one of them will take me to her. I am taken off like a prisoner under guard at this point. Fortunately we go about five metres and elderly friend comes around the corner. Her face lights up. "Hello dear" and then to the nurse's aide, "This is my other daughter." The nurse's aide looks slightly startled but backs off hurriedly. I present the chocolate. It is appreciated. We both agree it is too soon before lunch to broach it now.
Instead we go and sit in the little courtyard so my friend can enjoy the sun. We chat. I hear about all the things there are to do in her new home. She likes it. Someone else is getting the meals now. Next time you come you can park your tricycle there. Have you seen...? There is plenty to talk about. The visit is like very good chocolate. We both savour it.
When I leave we hug and she says, "Life is back to normal now I have seen you." She goes off to lunch. I pedal off. I take a detour via the supermarket for extra milk...and a tiny bit of good chocolate for Dad and myself.