I didn’t even ask her name

Last night John and and I were having TV supper ,catching up with world events on ‘Coach-trip’ , when there was a knock on the front door .It is rare that some-one comes a knocking in the evening – come to that ,people call round much in the day now either .

Anyway I put down my kedgeree , and opened the door to a little ,gently spoken ,Iranian ,sixty-something year old,Muslim ,lady .She had a folder and a petition .She was campaigning for a charity that ( roughly speaking ) supports Iranians who have been tortured in Iran and are seeking refugee status over here

I invited her in and before showing me horrific news reports( in her folder ) of women being stoned etc , she asked if I knew anyone Iranian .I only have one Iranian friend,Farisheh ( two if you count her sister Tarranae ,who I’ve met twice ) , who was in my book-club and kindly gave us all Shiatsu massages in the two years after Rosie died .She knows of her – this lady is a doctor ,Farisheh ,a physio ,so in the small Iranian community in West London,their paths have crossed .I think she felt she could trust me once we had a link. I asked her why she was campaigning door to door , and she told me she was passionate about the cause as years ago her 17year old son ,Ali ,converted to Christianity in Iran , and because of this he was tortured and killed. She then asked me if I had any children .I told her I have three,Jacob in Amsterdam in Florence in Glasgow and tragically ,Rosie ,who died at just 19 . We were standing under Rosie’s portrait .She broke down,I broke down .I signed something ,I couldn’t see what I was signing .We shed so many tears .We hugged .

It doesn’t bloody matter what culture ,creed or religion , if your child dies ,it is too sad for words.