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Summer 1995 and I have been walking for 5 hours, covering large areas of Wandsworth, Fulham, Hammersmith. I haven't got round to eating. It is very hot, am tired and I want to go home. I plod up the Fulham Road. I am passing the very entrance of the Chelsea and Westminster hospital when down the ramp into my path, apparently unaided rolls a minute wheelchair, and in it a tiny and ancient woman in winter coat and teacosy hat. "Take me home" she commands. "Can't get home on my own. I live just down the road."

We start off westwards down Fulham Road, squeezing between parked cars, my tiny charge, certainly over ninety rocking like a mummy in her little red chair, issuing peremptory instructions with a bony finger. Finally we home in on her block of flats near Dan Leno Walk. Looking forward to handing her over I speed up.

"Course" she says, turning her shockingly old face to me "won't be no one in; son's gone to Margate, innee? Taken the key."

We are now outside her flat. I am hungry and hot and feeling distinctly unsaintly. "I'll wait here" she commands. You go and check round the pubs see if he's back; he's called John. Tell him his mum's back."

I rehearse this mentally: "John in? Your mum's locked out." to a boozer full of Chelsea fans. I think not. I have an intense picture of this feckless son as a callow youth in football strip and earring. I remind myself that he is a pensioner.

I park her outside and go and check the neighbours. First floor flat; after an ominous scuffling in the hall the door opens onto straining Rottweiler and the ultimate tattooed and dysfunctional family. They "know nothing". At the floor above they know her. "Oh, Annie, not gone and locked herself out again? They usually get the fire brigade for Annie." Who am I to demur at this use of expensive social services?

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