My mother Loula visited last weekend, still very sad and lonely after the death of my father almost six years ago. I always try  to pamper her and make her feel happy during these visits.

On the Saturday afternoon, we popped into a local garden centre and were swinging on a hammock in the showroom when I noticed a grey-faced woman walking by with a wonderful colourful collection of cottage garden plants.

I admired her selection and, without asking, she shared her story with us, the sad recent loss of a beloved husband who had died after a botched up operation. She only has one divorced son who lives in Yorkshire, there are no grandchildren. Her life is very lonely.

She told us how she had vowed to her husband that she would never marry again, that no other man would ever come close to his perfection, but if she ever did, she would give him hell because nobody else could ever match him.

Her heavy downcast eyes and penetrative stare spoke a thousand words. I held my mother’s hand and reminded her how lucky she was that she was coming home to a family that truly loved her, that she was not alone like this poor ghostly soul.

After visiting the theatre in Cambridge that night, and later admiring the glorious facade of King’s College Chapel as we strolled along King’s Parade, we bumped into what looked like a bag lady who was shuffling along the path on the Market Place, her headscarfed head bent over to protect her against the unseasonal harsh chilly evening winds.

It was around 10.30pm and we were both concerned about her safety. High spirited lads were walking haphazardly in the vicinity, waving their beer cans from side to side, while the shrill, intoxicated voices of bare-midriffed girls could be heard nearby.

We approached the woman, who told us she was 78 and that her name was Veronica, and she was a former librarian and administrator, who had never married and had no children. She was clearly a woman of intelligence and was scouring the notices advertising concerts and lectures which were pinned on the wrought iron fencing of Great St Mary’s Church. I lent her a pen so she could write down some dates on a piece of scrap paper.

She told us she had a half hour walk back to her home and I instantly offered to drop her off. She readily agreed. Her bare toes with elongated, upturned toe nails were peeping out of her sandals. I found them fascinating.

En route to her flat, she told us about how she had once been mugged in the roughest part of Cambridge, but that she still wanted to walk about freely so she could enjoy the finest academic pursuits this fine university city had to offer.

Then Veronica took our breath away when she said: "I’ve got a boyfriend you know, and he’s only 54, but he doesn’t like classical music, so I have to go on my own."

I later reminded my mother that although I understood the loss she still felt, she was very lucky to have four children who  loved her very much, that she was not alone without family like these other two women we had met in the day, and she still had much to look forward to.

I felt we met these women for a reason – and wondered if it was it some kind of spiritual encounter – to help my sad mother reevaluate her life, to make her feel more positive.

Veronica clearly made an impression on Loula. She hasn’t stopped talking about her toy boy who is 24 years her junior, wondering what he is like.

I hope she is not getting any ideas….