Welcome to the House of Fun
“Right Dad, now you’ve finished your food let’s get you back to your chair before I have to go.” My Dad slowly rises and grasps his zimmer frame before tentatively making a move for his designated armchair.At this point I notice a miniscule woman with the complexion of a walnut zimmering like a thing possessed towards us. “You’ve NO RIGHT to sit in that chair, that’s my chair, that’s where I sit when I have a cigarette” she screamed as she aimed for the chair in question, her zimmer frame a blur. “Hang about my Father’s been sat there for the best part of two weeks, that’s the chair they gave him because it’s higher than the others and easier for him to get out of.” She wasn’t having it. “It’s MY chair!” Funny thing was though, neither was my Dad. He set off for his chair with his zimmer going ten to the dozen. “Fuck me” I thought “game on – a race.”
And it was. The pair of them were neck and neck across the tasteful carpet, occasionally hitting speeds of 1 mph. It was exciting stuff and the entire place was agog. They would have taken bets if they could – it was that close. In the end though my Dad’s superior zimmer-handling shone through and he won by a length. The abuse didn’t stop though. The walnut carried on and on until, in the end, my Dad found some more spirit and told her to “SHUT UP!”
It was all too much for the old feller by the window though, he burst into tears and couldn’t be consoled for quite some time.
In the end the carers appeared from wherever it is they disappear to at moments like this and order was soon restored although not for long.
One of the carers had spotted some old man sat out in the sun without a hat on. It was very hot and his bald head was turning a delicious shade of pink. “Where’s your hat Tommy?”
“I don’t know, I can’t find it. Burglars I reckon.”
“It’s not burglars you daft bugger It’ll be you putting it down and forgetting where. I’ll go and find it”
10 minutes later and there’s still no sign of his hat so, worried that he’ll burn, she decides to lend him a sombrero somebody had acquired on holiday.
“I couldn’t find your hat Tommy so I’ll let you borrow this one.” Whereupon she plonks the sombrero on his head.
Tommy suddenly looks serious and slowly raises his hands to his head and feels the hat. Next thing he’s taken it off and is looking at it with disdain.
“You’re taking the fucking piss out of me!” The hat flies Oddjob-like through the air and Tommy glares at the carer.
An old woman in the corner shouts: “He swore. He swore. He swore.” Over and over.
“Shut up you fool.” Says Tommy. Others join in and soon Bedlam reigns again.
Honestly you don’t know what you’re missing. Visit a respite home near you today for hours of top quality entertainment.
One day we had to ask my Dad where his glasses were as he can’t see a thing without them. He didn’t know. We asked the carers if they could find them and about half an hour later they were returned to my Dad.
Some old bloke in another room had found them, took a liking to them and had sat wearing them all day. The thing was though they were varifocals and this guy didn’t need glasses. What the hell he thought he’d been looking at I’ve no idea.
As I was leaving an old woman beckoned me over. "Have you come to see me?"
Life’s rich tapestry.
Strokes are funny things you know. I suppose they affect people in different ways and generalisations can't be made about the likely outcome a few weeks down the line. However, having seen (and heard) my fair share of the poor buggers over the past few months, I can attest that some become angry and aggressive, some lose all control of various parts of their bodies and some just smile. It's looking like my Dad is reverting to a kind of child-like state. Hardly able to walk, he sits in his chair in the respite home and watches the world go by. Any attempts at conversation are met with a smile and a "yes" or "no". Anything that enters his vision is stared at.
Back again after a short while. Nothing too dramatic - just life getting in the way. My Dad's gone into respite care for two to six weeks. They're hopefully going to come to some conclusion about the best way forward for him. I must admit the place he's in is bloody lovely; all clean sheets and artwork on the walls. He has his own room but is encouraged to mix with the other "inmates" as often as possible. They get taken for the occasional pub lunch or day out as well as physiotherapy, chiropody, hairdressing etc. I wouldn't mind a stint of it myself.
Wardle. Verb. To Wardle: To give the impression that you are aware of what is expected of you in the near future and to be prepared for whatever it is you are expected to do. [Negative]To be humiliatingly exposed as not being prepared whatsover and being a 100% sham. Wardling: The act of giving the impression you are fully prepared for what is to come. [Negative] The act of fucking up when it comes to the "ay lads ay".
You know, when you're faced with mortality and other matters of great import, what really puts things into perspective is the sight of grown men - millionaires many times over some of them - crying their sorry little hearts out because they got beat in a football competition. It's one of those pivotal moments in my love of Association Football. One of those distasteful images that will stick with me a long time. Along with some of the horrific stuff I experienced in the 70s that kept me away from football grounds for a long, long time. The likes of the entire England squad are nothing but mollycoddled, removed from reality tarts.
