Rosie and I are standing in the supermarket checkout queue.
“What does that say”, she says pointing to a sign on a pillar next to us.
“It says that if you want to purchase cigarettes and you look under 16 the supermarket reserves the right to ask for proof of age”, I say.
“Well, I don’t suppose I would be mistaken for 15 these days”; 88 year-old Rosie replies and flashes me a mischievous smile.
We both laugh. I ask if she was ever a smoker.
“No, not really, but I once smoked hashish with a Lebanese chap”, she’s looking thoughtful; obviously her mind has taken her on a detour down memory lane.
I try to imagine my own parents ever smoking hashish with Lebanese chaps, and fail miserably.
“How did that make you feel”, I ask Rosie.
“Oh, I don’t know… a little bit funny I suppose.” She’s quiet for a moment, “but no more funny than usual, really”, she winks at me.
It’s time to pay for the shopping.