Januariad

See Imelda, carrying a loaf, head dipped respectfully towards the wind. Her hair is honest white, honest curled. Her skin is smooth and evenly tan, burnt ruddy from a million walks to the newsagent. On her feet she wears clumping walking shoes, two prominent inches of rounded black rubber crowned with a faux leather vamp and quarter. The shoes are, by any objective measure, ugly. By any objective measure they are practical, by any objective measure they are modern and yet formal. Shoes designed for people no younger and no older than Imelda.

The loaf is cellophane wrapped soda bread, pre-sliced, held together within the bag by a crinkling plastic tray. Imelda carries it under one arm, without a carrier bag. It is her only message. It crackles as she walks. She strides purposefully, throwing shapes younger than her years. A tolerant grin appears in the face of particularly strong gusts. She appreciates every weather. The loaf clutched to her side is a passport to the world. A message from the shops. She nods at everyone she sees.