Ester has been coming to my house on Monday mornings, off and on - more off than on - for almost three years. A minuscule, elegant lady, well into her seventies, she wears her silky grey hair in a tight bun.

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She sews on my ancient sewing machine, in my daughter's bedroom.

“I am so happy”, she told me when she first came. “I love my work. I am a widow, and my two sons are grown up. So I sew, every day. I go to different houses. I like this room. It’s bright.”

She charges about £7.00 for a half-day's work. When she first came, she needed to let out all my clothes, and last Monday (yay!) she took them all in again. She fixes curtains, makes pillowcases, and does old-fashioned things like turning collars and cuffs inside out.

Monday was the first time I'd seen her in several months. She was obviously upset, so I asked her what was the matter. "I live for my work," she said. "I am sad when I don't have work. And my German client has left - I used to make clothes for her every week, and now she's gone. And the American doesn't call me any more, and my English client is away on holiday. Sometimes I wonder why I'm still here, and I wish I would just quietly go away in my sleep. I have sons - it's not the same as daughters - I hardly see them..."

Result: next week Ester and I will go material shopping - I could do with a couple of new dresses for the summer...