Betty lives in a cottage she bought in North Wales, in the 80s for about £3.50.
She's done all sorts of things but now lives on the royalties from several childrens books she wrote and illustrated, and some freelance writing as and when she feels compelled to bother. She made some sensible investments at some point in the past when a higher income coincided with a financially clever boyfriend.
She likes knitting, spinning and weaving, has 14 cats, and a field full of sheep.
She's had a series of weird and wonderful boyfriends, of varying suitability, and has one daughter who lives in London and calls her Mother Dearest when she phones, which is once in a blue moon. She should care about this but isn't really all that bothered.
She drives a tatty VW Golf with bits held on with baler twine, she'd prefer an even tattier Volvo estate but the last one finally died aged 25, halfway across her field. Where it still is.
She makes jam, it isn't very good and never wins at the WI show, but she doesn't care. She makes sloe gin too and never enters that.
Her daughter thinks shes boring and isolated but actually she has all the company she needs in the local community, is rarely alone more than a day at a time and really wishes sometimes people would stop popping in. This morning she found the postman at the kitchen table, making himself toast whilst he waited for her to come down and sign for a parcel.