There was ice on the inside of my windows over the weekend. “Hello Jack Frost,” I said, just like my dad used to when I was little. The fractal patterns looked like a painting of a lost world and for a moment, I just stood and stared at their beauty. Then I went into survival mode: hot-water bottle, tea, porridge. The thermometer told me it was 7C. I clambered back into bed and flicked the electric blanket to max. Should I put the heating on? This is the one question I have been asking myself since the weather turned brutal. Generally the answer is a painful no.
I have battled a fair deal in my 60-something years, but these are some of the hardest times, demanding all of my fortitude. Because this isn’t living, it is enduring. I always got by, but now, due to low pay, soaring prices and my age, I teeter closer and closer to poverty. I worry about being able to keep earning enough to pay my bills. I worry how I’ll get through the next five years to state pension age. I worry, and then what? I worry.
