Meantime, my fellow inmates continue to be themselves. Morgan is an alcoholic, diabetic, 5'5'' Welshman with what I can only describe as a weathered face, blue eyes and crinkly, grey-streaked black hair. He must be around 70. Some 30 years ago while on holiday in Greece, he lost both legs just below the knee in a drunken accident when he somehow managed to waterski into a motorboat at full throttle. Sadly (touchingly? quaintly?) – well you can't laugh, can you -- he wears his trousers, usually jeans, with the empty legs dangling down at the front of his wheelchair, perfectly pressed and placed precisely where his legs ordinarily would have been, stopping just short of the footplates.
He’s generally quiet and polite and when having his pints – Guinness preferred -- in the fresh-air part, sits apparently in a world of his own, smoking one cigarette after another. That is, unless he’s had a few – given his depleted body-mass, two pints is enough and he doesn’t like to stop there. He can get recklessly bad-tempered and has a builder’s vocabulary. His refusal to accept the limitations imposed by his loss means that, in a rage or trying to pick his cigarettes up from the floor, he frequently pitches head-first out of his chair, which doesn’t cheer him up at all. Shamefully, it's happened often enough now to produce an ironic cheer or round of applause from some quite unsympathetic fellow residents – as if he'd done it on purpose for their entertainment.(It's Showtime!!!) No, not Morgan.
A striking woman, Elaine, occasionally drops in to chat to some staff and residents. Tallish, greying hair secured in a ponytail, a little too much lipstick, flat shoes and a so-so bust. My instincts had cut in and my reservations were noisily shouting for my attention just as I noticed the Adam’s apple. I looked around the dining room, checking people’s reactions. Clearly, they were familiar with Elaine but there was a studied neutrality in several faces, including staff, some of whom were themselves watching others’ reactions and it was clear that those reactions ranged from grudging acknowledgement, through uncomfortable to openly cheerful and welcoming.
I’m often told by both staff and some residents that the place lacks proper management. There’s a reluctance to make decisions and there’s no managerial hierarchy where you can identify someone who can impose discipline, knowing that their authority would be accepted and endorsed by senior management. I’ve certainly noticed that and apparently it’s only become a problem over the past year. There’s nostalgia for the firm hand of management that meant staff were quickly brought into line and followed correct procedures. The last manager of this house was Neil, who made it function efficiently and cheerfully; he was in charge and you did things properly. Not only that, he was, apparently, a first-class carer as well and led by example. It was almost a family occupation, since Wendy, his ‘partner’ (oh how I hate the way that designation is becoming prevalent) also works here. She’s now one of the senior care officers and deputy manager, a position for which she signally lacks the judgement and decisiveness.
Neil is now 'Elaine' and it was Wendy he came to talk to. Well, I’m sorry: you can dip me in chocolate and call me a penguin but if Neil has an Adam’s apple, stands up to pee, doesn’t get PMS and can reverse into a parking space, I’m damned if I’ll call him ‘her’. I’m not alone in not celebrating: it’s also obvious that Wendy isn’t over the moon at his presence here. The regular sight of Neil, now Elaine and in a dress, often with a padded bra in her company in view of many residents, is an agonising embarrassment for her and her relief when he leaves is obvious. There’s nothing remotely feminine about him. I understand that she’d love him to bugger off, in a non-technical way, but her lingering – but fading – affection for the man he once was allows the situation to continue. God knows what their poor bloody kids make of it.
Tommy remains the man who brings the sun out (“It’s what I do. I tell it to come out.”) but he’s not been well and refused to go to the doctor. No-one was prepared to try and make him because that would only produce a pretty heated confrontation and he can put up one hell of a fight if they attempt to get him into a taxi against his will, becoming what Americans refer to as “an ornery cuss”. It’s been tried before and it wasn’t nice. He’d probably have a major fit anyway. It’s very unsettling though, when a 60-something baldy with a manic laugh/giggle, badly-stained graveyard teeth and wide-open eyes made rather alarming by very thick lenses on his glasses, keeps calling me ‘m’dear’, frequently using the word “darling”and patting me on the shoulder while not sounding or looking remotely like Noel Coward or Stephen Fry. Fortunately for both of us, I don’t think that, hormonally, he’s even remotely Freddie Mercury, never mind Graham Norton. In its wisdom, nature has ensured that he will always been no more than eight years old and he is a bigger danger to himself than he is to anybody else. Just don't upset him.
Yesterday evening about 8.45, I went to the Social Club for a pint: it's about 100 yards away from our entrance, about 35 seconds pushing for my carer. Sometimes, we all have to do things we dislike. I sat opposite Trevor, who was on his second pint of Guinness. Morgan was in his accustomed position, doing what Morgan does. As I finished my Director’s Bitter (recommended), he was reordering and invited me to another, duly accepted. That finished, he accepted my offer of another, opting for a Wood’s rum although I decided enough was enough at that stage. That’s 10-ish, when I returned. The bar shuts at 10.30. About 10.55, Graham, on duty from 10pm, was interrupted while he was talking to me. He returned about 25 minutes later, explaining that Trevor had had problems getting back from the club, Big surprise! He’d needed assistance covering the last 90 yards or so and then in getting to bed. This morning at breakfast, he was obviously fully recovered, since he ate half next year’s UN Ethiopian breakfast food allocation.
It’s 11pm. I had a Bishop’s Finger about half an hour ago. (That’s a beer, you pervert.) Within the hour, bed and a giant whisky await. Oh, sod it. I can’t wait that long.
Graham! Graham! GRAHAM!
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