Author: Tessa Calvert

Wigan, May, 2021 I was wandering around the town centre when the pavement suddenly seemed much harder, which wasn't surprising, because my right shoe had collapsed, only the inner sole holding it together - and the left one wouldn't last long. They were a very old, much-mended pair of wedges, kept because so comfortable. I… Continue reading The Shoe →

Dinner on the Nile, 2010 The ship was cruising slowly past the banks of the ancient river. The other diners at our table were joking about the limited wine list - Pharoah red or white - when my partner's face changed shape, he made a strange guttural sound and clutched his napkin to his mouth… Continue reading Teeth →

It's hardly an obsession. She's only one of several dead women of destiny in my library - the face of five paperbacks, the biographies, and a hardcover about the Windsor style. I have a small collection of articles about her too, because whenever her name or image appears in print or on-screen, it gets my… Continue reading Wallis – a memento →

November, 2020 I'd seen him - or parts of him - umpteen times before, because he lives only a few doors down the road. His car is parked on the drive and he's always tinkering with it, head in the bonnet or the boot. When he's under it, only his feet are visible to the… Continue reading Hello… →

March, 2020 The priest advanced towards me, arms open wide, about to plant a kiss on my cheek, his standard welcome for female volunteers at the cathedral - harmless, if a touch damp. But I was to be spared that day, because such a greeting was against the new Rule. So he made a courtly… Continue reading Close to You →

A village near Wigan, Lancashire, 2009 The professor sat in his usual chair, feet high on a matching stool, because they were playing up that day.  Still witty and brilliant of mind, he was a stooped shadow of the man I'd met six years before. The Venetian blinds that were hell to clean were half-closed,… Continue reading Three →

May, 2020 Just as it was getting dark one night, there was a single knock on the front door. A parcel lay on the porch. The person who put it there, about to get back in his van, turned and smiled in my direction.  Or at least I think he did, because he was wearing… Continue reading The Mask →

This piece first appeared a year ago, a guest post for an American audience. It belongs to the Pensionista collection as a mini-manifesto and also as a basis for a later feature on the lockdown experience of 2020  - and the coronavirus outbreak still running its course. Close the front door behind me, then turn… Continue reading Home Alone →

February, 2020 The red smudge in the road wasn't blood -  and too flat to be a cat or a hedgehog.  It was definitely, however, something run over, that had once been alive.  I could still make out the outline of a leaf or two and the squashed head of a flower - maybe the… Continue reading Flower Power →

A silky square of material, to be worn around the neck, it looks like an innocent addition to anyone's wardrobe, but it isn't.  I know, because I stole it. Central London, October 2019 I was half-way down Oxford Street when I noticed something flapping on my coat sleeve - a small scarf, the label still… Continue reading Theft →