‘I hate being late, you know.
I’m an old lady now, and everything is harder than it used to be: I can’t lift things so well, I don’t hear too good and my eyes aren’t what they should be.
People don’t notice me, either… Now I’m old I seem to fade into the wallpaper not like when I was young and vibrant, when I had a life.
Is it time yet? No? Alright then… But I won't be late, I hate being late, you know.
I died yesterday. Memorial service later today…
Like I said, I really hate being late.’