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Progress of a sort
I think my mother is gradually acknowledging that her life now with my father is not a happy one. 'It's getting a bit primitive,' she said to me a few days ago. I asked her in what way. 'All the piss and shit,' she replied. He is incontinent; he doesn't always get to the loo in time. Even though he wears incontinence pads, shit escapes round the sides when he pulls down his pants to sit on the loo. She clears up the mess, and shit stinks, his in particular, as I've said before.
He needs 24 hour care. Fortunately he doesn't wander out of the house, yet; he isn't aggressive, yet. However, unlike toddlers who gradually become continent, he will not.
Today I phoned the new care home and booked a visit for next Tuesday.
I came across an almost empty carton of Trex in the fridge that was speckled with black, probably mould, as the use by date was Jan 2004.
As I returned from my early walk this morning the paper van drew up outside the house and the man got out to put his pile of newspapers on the front door step. 'Don't put them there,' I said. 'Put them on the pavement like you do with all the other piles.' 'But I always leave them there,' he replied, just what I expected him to say. He added 'Do you live here?'. Yes, said I, it's under new management. Oh, he said, and put the papers on the pavement. So that, I hope, is that. No one can escape change, not even newsagents.
Thought for today
A synonym is a word you use when you can't spell the word you first thought of.
Burt Bacharach (1928 - ) American songwriter
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