it's hard to be a saint in the city

As I was cycling to work today I passed an old woman hanging onto the railings for dear life, and shaking. I stopped and asked if she was alright. She had real panic in her eyes, so I stayed with her... telling her to breathe slowly through her nose, not talk, and just listen to my voice (I then prattled on about my cycle journey thusfar). This is a technique I learnt when I used to get panic attacks: breathe through nose, don't talk, and just listen. She was OK, she just had arthritis and her legs had started to go from under her.

I walked her to her house, sat her in her loungeroom and made her a cup of tea. The desperation she displayed as she practically lunged, oblivious to anything else, for her armchair... was fascinating. The Salubrious Chair. It was as if all would be well once she was enveloped by its armrests. That place which represents Safety. Interesting. I waited with her for about half an hour, talking about her husband and children, and made general chit-chat.

She (67) was almost 10 years younger than my father (76). She had none of the rigor of health that he has. She was frail and frightened, and takes lots of medication. She smokes. Whilst getting milk for her tea I noticed that the refridgerator had no fresh food or vegetables in it, and was instead full of processed stuff. Neither of my parents take medication, and they both eat properly, and physically work hard. My genes come from their stock, and I can choose to exploit them if I want, or alternatively I can choose to whinge about my mood... and end up like the withered old lady (Kathleen) I saw today.

As I climbed back on my bicycle I felt strong and powerful, and grateful for youth and good health.