Definitive spirit

In the staff lodge of Stocks Hotel at approximately eight o’clock, a cup of tea would be constructed and a brash voice would shout, demanding the presence of whoever thieved the milk. Sylvia Jackson liked things her way. When I first set eyes on Sylvia, I saw a bitter old woman trying desperately to relive her youth. Dressed in cropped t-shirts and tight jeans, she certainly was not your average fifty-four year old. She seemed too old to be working alongside my eighteen year old self as a waitress. She would spend hours rambling on with tales of her life and at first I would turn a blind ear. However, after noticing the respect she was bathed in by others I opened my ears and what I heard changed my opinion entirely.
Sylvia had spent fifteen years living happily married in Cyprus. One day she came home to heart wrenching news – her beloved husband had slept with another woman. Instantly she booked the first flight back to Britain with the goal of setting up a new life. Her main passion was animals: her bright blue eyes would light up when she spoke of horses and her background in animal care but then they would dim to a shallow grey when she spoke of the fate that befell her two beloved dogs. After Sylvia upped the ante and left her unfaithful man, he took her dogs out onto an open plain, shotgun in hand and returned empty handed without the faithful pitter patter of feet by his side.
I warmed greatly to Sylvia after hearing her tale of woe. Joining her for walks on the beach and giggling slightly to myself as she whipped out a bright white Baywatch-esque bikini and black avatars. Above all, she seemed lonely - lonely and brave.
There will always be a special place in my sordid little heart for Sylvia and her riveting morals. One day I will sit back in my rocking chair, surrounded by screaming Grandchildren, and tell her story accompanied by a well-worn cliché – ‘Never judge a book by it’s cover’.