Picture the scene, an old peoples home, an embittered old crone bubbling with ulcerous Daily Mail bile, read that rag at your peril, for your worst nightmares may just come true, creeping up on you when you're alone scared and waiting to, waiting to be proved right, to be touched indecently, abused. Fed by a life long diet of paranoia and suspicion. The suffering one grabs my old Granny's hand, a sweet companion, some soft human touch to drag down into her mire of regurtiated vitriol. Are these her words I am trying to ignore, should I believe her maybe she is telling the truth, dark hands where they shouldn't be, now it has me. Doubt crawls up my leg and fingers my chest.