Good grief -- still only September but already they are talking about Christmas arrangements. They will be hard put to top last year. We had a Christmas lunch to remember. In groups of 10 or so, the residents go to a local restaurant for the Christmas "special". I sat at a table where my fellow diners included David and John (the drunkards!). I've always thought of myself as more of a gourmand than a gourmet, though the odd pretension is not beyond me. We contrived to cause chaos when we arrived at the restaurant -- six wheelchairs, one powered and under the control of a half blind fat man with a poor sense of direction (David), two pushed and two self-propelled -- but very slowly and uncertainly. Several badly-bruised tables later, David ended up facing John, who was sitting next to me. Thanks to a stroke, John has limited vocabulary and patience when faced with delays, obstructions or failure to understand him. Oh how the waiters enjoyed dealing with him! (Fortunately, either they were familiar with the situation or had been briefed in advance, so they did not respond badly as he very colourfully expressed himself). The obligatory stupid paper hats emerged from the crackers: only David decided to wear it.
During the meal, which fell rather short of Come Dine With Me standard, David and John got through two bottles of wine before they started on the port. They are known for this, which is why they are referred to as the drunkards. By this time, David needed waking up every two forkfuls/spoonfuls, as his hand continually lost momentum and came to a halt on its journey, halfway between plate and mouth. I thought it would have been fun not to have woken him at all but simply left him alone at the table and wait for him to surface, then watch as he attempted to rationalise his situation. John didn't think that was very funny and he told me. "That's not very funny", he told me. "It's just not... you're very... no..no. Well, it's just not funny. It's not. Okay? Okay?" John used to be a schoolteacher.
It's Saturday morning. Deep joy is on ration but I do the best I can. This morning it is Liz, accompanied by Deepak, a slightly apprehensive Indian guy of about 18. The morning rituals involve carers necessarily having fairly intimate access to residents' bodies: in some cases they give them a bath or assist them in their toileting requirements. I was their last resident before breakfast. Trying to be chatty and put him at his ease in his obvious discomfort, I asked him how long he'd been involved in caring. This, he told me, was his first experience ever! Well give the lad his due, I thought -- he may be finding it challenging but he is trying to get it right. Still, he did look shellshocked by this short, sharp introduction to the nitty-gritty of caring. Why, I wondered to myself, had he been teamed up with Liz, one of the long-serving carers here but still one of the least capable of taking a lead, making decisions or, depressingly often, being able to do things properly anyway. Why, I wondered aloud, had he not been been given any basic training first? He smiled weakly and apologetically and shrugged his shoulders. Not because that was the only way he could answer that question though. No, he answered that way because his English is so poor he didn't understand the question I asked, along with a lot of the conversation that we had thought we were having with him!
He disappeared from sight sometime during the morning and he didn't reappear. Mind you, that is not really surprising. He had been sent at short notice by the agency to assist the kitchen staff!! Fully expecting to be preparing vegetables, cleaning kitchen utensils and equipment and cooking under the supervision of a trained cook, he had driven here from East Ham. On arrival at 7 a.m., he was greeted by the care team: they simply assumed he was one of the agency carers and allocated him accordingly. Inside 10 minutes, the poor lad found himself in an apron and wearing latex gloves, helping to give a bath to easily-confused and not infrequently incontinent Philip, then potty-mouthed and not mad, just slightly-unhinged Katy (a sample, just to give you some idea: "Hello darling, you're very nice! Are you married darling? I love you darling -- who are you? Well you can f-off, just effing F-off!" This bonhomie is extended to all and sundry. They love her at her local Pentecostal Church. No, really, they do! I suppose Pentecostalists need a laugh a more than most.)
I think he is now reviewing his career options.
