Old France, la vieille, she can’t sit still. She’s seen better days, but she’s still got a certain sexy je ne sais quoi. The dame’s experienced, her affairs over the years have made her wiser and tougher. She’ll still give a stranger a kiss, but she’s more cautious about going to bed with him. France knows that if everyone just listened to her stories of when she was young a bit more, they’d stay out of trouble. But that’s the curse of age: the kids just won’t listen. France sips a glass of wine and winks at the gardener.

Here’s Germany, sitting in her armchair, a fat and prosperous hausfrau. Germany used to be prone to fits of rage but now the medication seems to be working. She’s learned that the drinking isn’t a good idea, and now gets her kicks cooking sausages and selling them to the other residents. And she’s taken up gardening too, got quiote a green thumb recently. Somehow the staff doesn’t seem to notice her much though. They’re still gasping at France, who’s showing a bit of leg.

Then there’s Sweden, up in his attic flat. Keeps to himself, the old gentleman does. But sometimes he picks up the old Lutheran tracts and just can’t stop himself from going door to door. “Have you heard the gospel of sharing?” he asks the villagers. “Why won’t you tithe like me?” he asks the other residents of Old Europe. His neighbours feel a bit sorry for old grey Sweden. “What a dull fellow,” they say. “No one listens to him any more. Hell, the super won’t even turn his heat on.”

And Russia, another sad case. Used to be, everyone was afraid of the burly old fellow. He ran with a gang of younger kids, had a pretty successful protection racket going on. A lot of people wanted to be like him, thought he was pretty cool. “Don Russia,” they would say, “can you teach me your tricks?” But then Russia had some internal troubles, gastroenteritis maybe. Some say he was poisoned, but probably he should have spent more on his medicines and less on all that jewellery. He couldn’t fight like a Jet, couldn’t dance like a Shark. Now he’s lost a lot of weight, and a little bit of height too, and he sits on the porch, shaking his cane at the kids. “Get out of my flower bed!” he bellows. “Don’t come any closer, or there’ll be trouble.” It’s all bluster though. Fact is, Russia can’t stand up without the help of the nurses.

Some of the residents are calling themselves New Europe. Look, there’s new Britain. He’s on the dance floor, boogying up a storm with his niece America. Look at them go! Whoosh! Britain’s chanting a little song as they twirl: “Let me lead/I’m a steed/I inspire/We’re on fire!” Evenings, like Tony Bennett, he sings duets with younger women down the pub. He’s the toast of the town, the old bugger must have found the fountain of youth. America’s quite infatuated, in her own way. But later on, Britain staggers home, strips off his makeup and wig, puts on the kettle and recites his favourite bit of T.S. Eliot. “I am old,” he chuckles, “I am old/ I shall wear my trouser rolled.” What a con he’s pulled. Still got it, he does. But he’s afraid the kids are laughing at him behind his back. His cries himself to sleep. Really, he just misses his wife. Let him sleep, poor fellow.

New Portugal spent most of her life abroad in Africa and the Far East, where she used to beat her servants. She’s still upset that her neighbours left her in the lurch out there. One by one the servants quit, and finally Portugal was all alone, had to come home. Now she’s forced to make ends meet working part-time as a maid for the other Europeans. She had an affair with Britain many years ago, let’s be honest, she still puts on extra make-up for him to see. Why look at her. She’s almost as pretty as France. Somehow, though, she doesn’t get as many dates.

Sure, he may be as sewn together as a Frankenstein's monster, armless and missing an ear. Sure, he can still see stars from what he's been through, and if he rolled up his trousers you'd see the stripes of torture marks. But he's all-New! That's quality formaldehyde in his veins! Lookit him go! We can rebuild him! Isn't his artificial leg fetching? Zoom! Delivered through the magic of just-on-time delivery.