Living Alone

I prefer to live by myself rather than in one of those retirement villages. "But don't you get lonely?" I am often asked. I can truthfully answer that I don't. I must admit that I enjoy my own company more than that of most of my family and friends and prefer to keep in touch by telephone or, more recently, by email.

Julie, my married daughter, lives about half an hour's drive away. Sometimes I wish it was a lot further. I appreciate the housework and the cooking she does when she visits me each week, but she does get the pantry in a mess, although she claims she is keeping it tidy. She can't tolerate half empty plastic bags of stuff like rice and sugar or small, open cardboard boxes of things like cornflour. Everything goes into screw top glass jars. I am under strict instructions to wash and save all empty jars. That's fine, but I do wish she would label the jars. I even leave sticky labels and a pen handy but she ignores them.

Julie is off to Sydney for a few days so I decide to put the pantry to rights while she is safely out of the way. Things I can identify and need, including stuff in unlabeled jars, are returned to the pantry shelves with appropriate labels. Things in unlabeled jars and bags which defy my combined senses of sight, smell and taste are chucked straight in the bin. Ah! That's much better.

I'm left with one tin which seems to have lost its label years ago. I can hardly blame Julie for that. It could contain any one of a variety of things including fruit -- but it isn't fruit. There's no feeling that it contains liquid when I shake it. When I wipe it clean of accumulated dust, it appears to be in good condition but there is no 'use by' date or the ring pull for opening that found on most modern cans.

As it sits on the bench, I make little wagers with myself on what it contains. Finally, I just have to know and search in the drawer for an old fashioned can opener.

I run a tentative, moist finger across the top of the almost black, slightly sticky contents. It isn't really black, more a dark purple. On the tip of my tongue it stirs a memory from pre-diabetic times. A second, larger lick and I know -- my old favourite, plum jam.

I find it easier to stick to a strict diet if I allow myself to gourmandise occasionally. Having decided that this will be one of those rare days when I break all the rules, I have purchased a loaf of fresh, white bread from the baker. I make a cup of tea, cut a thick slice of bread and spread it thinly with the jam. The second slice is much more thickly spread.

There will be no more glucometer readings today and the blood glucose figures I enter in the diabetic diary I must show to the doctor will be figments of my imagination. There are many advantages to living by myself.