She doesn't put chia seeds on her yoghurt or go to the gym. She doesn't do downward dog, the Sudoku or sort the recycling.
She ignores toothpaste splats on the sink, the Today programme and renewing her parking permit.
She doesn't wear her best dress. Slouches in her comfy, elasticated joggers. But she does wear clean underwear. (You never know).
She won't bother writing a thank you letter or meditate. She never got the hang of it anyhow.
No point in cleaning gunk out of the tiles with a toothpick. No point in wondering if God is dead.
She never asks what the third rail on a railway is for. How the last episode of Succession ends. Why Lime Scooters are allowed to clog up the pavement.
She doesn't hear trumpets sound. Or what will happen to Alice Carter, who's struggling with alcoholism, on The Archers.
She won't eat a special last meal, like a condemned prisoner on Death Row. Instead, she binges on a bag of Quavers and miniature Milky Ways. She refuses to share the last Skittle with her husband.
She can't be arsed to dust bust crumbs from the floor, deworm the dog and apologise to the neighbour for fly-tipping an old mattress in his garden.
She won't vote, write to her Member of Parliament, go on a protest march.
But she will listen to the rain, more rain falling. And put on her cagoule. Just in case.
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