I have spent time this summer humming the Beatles tune, “I get by with a little help from my friends.” Let’s see, there was Judy who came and cleaned for us at the cottage at our place when Garney was unable to and I was too exhausted. Judy is seventy, white-haired, with the build of a pixie. She cleans for other people, and I pay her, but still, she’s my friend, so it felt odd. “I feel really guilty about this. Would you prefer me to get someone else?” I asked the last time she was over. Judy swung around and fixed me with her beautiful blue eyes. “Not unless you’d like,” she said. I assured her that she was the Gold Standard, and we would much prefer her. The cottage pays for groceries; we need to have it ticking over.
One friend brought us soup and chili, two more walked Kira. Another woman, who abhors cleaning her own house, phoned up and offered to help me clean the cottage. My friend Joy offered to walk Kira but then got a call from the nursing home to inform her they were kicking her rambunctious father out. Joy’s husband offered to walk Kira. “What’s not to like?” he said, patting her ridiculously bald head while her tail waved.