ROSINA AND HER AUNT PETUNIA.

One morning after a deep sleep, Rosina woke up to find her Aunt Petunia sitting on the end of the bed, filing her ghostly nails, wearing a lurid red dress that came above the knees, her hair tied neatly in a blue bow, with a phantom cigarette hanging from her lower lip. Her aunt had always been an early riser; up at dawn, up with the lark. She remembered going to her aunt's house for Sunday tea as a child, with the jars of celery, tomatoes cut into shapes, carrots in thin sticks, lettuce wet with water, sandwiches cut into small triangles, with pots of hot tea from fine bone China cups. She recalled Aunt Petunia standing by the piano with Uncle Peter singing choruses from Gilbert and Sullivan, him in deep baritone, her in her soprano voice ringing the glasses. At Aunt Petunia's funeral, she had seen her aunt sitting at the back dressed in a neat two-piece of black weeping at her own departure. Rosina remembered the time her aunt had accompanied her and Granger her boyfriend around the National Gallery, pointing out her favourite paintings, whispering in Rosina's ear the faults of Granger, the way he walked, his eyes being too close together, the infrequency he visited his wallet, the time it took him to choose which wine to drink, which sandwich to eat, the size of his nose compared to other men surrounding them. She had blown on the necks of people who stood in front of her favourite artist too long, had removed a programme of paintings from Granger's pocket and placed it in a bin; had been in other words a complete bitch. However, Rosina liked her; she had class; had good taste in music, art and books. She had left behind the Gilbert and Sullivan with Uncle Peter and ventured off into Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and could sing the lyrics of Stairway to Heaven in her fine soprano voice with perfect pitch. Her aunt having finished filing her nails, turned her head, causing the ponytail to swing around with flourish, and said, Good morning, Rosina, fancy a trip to the Tate? They have a good exhibition on and please don't bring that bore Granger or I shall spit in his wine and pinch his sandwiches. Then she laughed brightly and disappeared slowly saying: See you at twelve and don't be late.