Everyone says I don’t look 64, but on Mondays I feel every day of it, and I can’t wait for my 65th birthday. I suppose it’s the prospect of five full days at the diner ahead of me that does it, because on Fridays, when I’m cleaning out the ovens, I always feel like a young woman again, looking forward to the weekend ahead, full of plans and excitement. At that time, my retirement in December is very far from my mind.

This Monday morning I’m in the kitchens, busy hauling steaming plates out of the dishwasher, when an arm roughly encircles my neck from behind and I find myself being dragged backwards out of the kitchens, heels scraping along the floor. I experience an overwhelming rush of shocked indignation at being treated like this and, oddly, it’s tinged with a hint of embarrassment and self-pity as I catch a…