excellent.’ He’d sit up in his chair with renewed enthusiasm. P, edge of his seat now. ‘Right, enough of your bloody consonants.’ A – a tut of displeasure, ‘Vowel, yes, vowel,’ followed by a delighted cheer and triumphant air punch at the arrival of U.
‘Fuck!’ he shouted with glee, followed by mutterings of how nobody ever announces these words on the show. The highlight of his life was not the birth of any of his children, his marriage or even the end of the war. It was the day of 10 th November 1985 when the letters he had been waiting for – for years – eventually arrived. He joyously phoned around the family. We were convinced he’d won the lottery. That the unlikely scenario of choosing numbers one to six (they have as much chance as any) had come good. In fact, he had finally been able to make ‘bastard’. He died a week later; perhaps it was the shock? Bless him, he died a happy man. Finally at peace. Naturally, we were all devastated, but so happy for him that his much-awaited letters had come up before he went. Even Gran had to agree with that. I caught her several months later muttering swear words under her breath as she watched Countdown from Granddad’s old chair, complete with his bum-print, over her afternoon cup of tea and half a packet of Hobnobs. Yes, she missed him but, never one to be outdone, she had to find a similarly long rude word. She never did. The Master could never be beaten.
The time comes around for me to begin my new job. Day one and I’m placed in my wing. The Home is devised to make the clients feel that they are in a Five Star hotel. I spent all last week on training courses and am now qualified in many wonderful things, such as changing colostomy bags, giving medication and realising the difference between the onset of dementia and a urinary tract infection. They are strangely and intricately linked it would appear. My first job is to help a stroke victim with his breakfast. His name is Harry, and he is Eighty-seven years young. His speech is slightly slurred, but I can understand the majority of what he says.
‘Not a bad arse,’ I hear, as I bend to pick up his washing from the floor.
‘Excuse me?’ I laugh.
‘Am I getting my breakfast or not? I probably won’t be alive by the time those clothes come back from the laundry anyway, but I am hungry.’
‘Now don’t you be saying things like that,’ I scold. ‘You better keep in with me if you want a wee dram of a winter’s night. I know where the keys to the booze cabinet are.’ With that, we are firm friends. Harry looks for me each day that I am working, and sulks if I’m on a day off.
‘Those weekend staff don’t know if they need a shite or a haircut,’ he complains.
Two weeks into my job and I’m allocated Harry as my key client. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that we get on so well and, where possible, the seniors try to match up the clients and key workers if they see a rapport. I read up on Harry’s fascinating history. He had been in the Royal Navy and had fought in World War II. He’d never married nor had children. It seemed such a waste. He cared for his elderly parents and inherited their house when they died, which he had now sold to pay for his care.
‘Bloody ridiculous state of affairs,’ he had said when I had discussed this part of his care plan with him. ‘You spend your life working your arse off, paying your taxes and serving your country. Then how do they repay you? I’ll tell you how. They say: “I’m very sorry Mr. Mackay but you’re no longer any use to us. Tell you what, you sell your house and give us back every penny that you and your family have ever earned.” That’s what!’ I nod in agreement. It is ridiculous. Considering some of the other residents had never owned their own homes and yet still receive the same care as Harry, but for free. Not their fault either. Life can deal you some crap, but still it seems
‘Fuck!’ he shouted with glee, followed by mutterings of how nobody ever announces these words on the show. The highlight of his life was not the birth of any of his children, his marriage or even the end of the war. It was the day of 10 th November 1985 when the letters he had been waiting for – for years – eventually arrived. He joyously phoned around the family. We were convinced he’d won the lottery. That the unlikely scenario of choosing numbers one to six (they have as much chance as any) had come good. In fact, he had finally been able to make ‘bastard’. He died a week later; perhaps it was the shock? Bless him, he died a happy man. Finally at peace. Naturally, we were all devastated, but so happy for him that his much-awaited letters had come up before he went. Even Gran had to agree with that. I caught her several months later muttering swear words under her breath as she watched Countdown from Granddad’s old chair, complete with his bum-print, over her afternoon cup of tea and half a packet of Hobnobs. Yes, she missed him but, never one to be outdone, she had to find a similarly long rude word. She never did. The Master could never be beaten.
The time comes around for me to begin my new job. Day one and I’m placed in my wing. The Home is devised to make the clients feel that they are in a Five Star hotel. I spent all last week on training courses and am now qualified in many wonderful things, such as changing colostomy bags, giving medication and realising the difference between the onset of dementia and a urinary tract infection. They are strangely and intricately linked it would appear. My first job is to help a stroke victim with his breakfast. His name is Harry, and he is Eighty-seven years young. His speech is slightly slurred, but I can understand the majority of what he says.
‘Not a bad arse,’ I hear, as I bend to pick up his washing from the floor.
‘Excuse me?’ I laugh.
‘Am I getting my breakfast or not? I probably won’t be alive by the time those clothes come back from the laundry anyway, but I am hungry.’
‘Now don’t you be saying things like that,’ I scold. ‘You better keep in with me if you want a wee dram of a winter’s night. I know where the keys to the booze cabinet are.’ With that, we are firm friends. Harry looks for me each day that I am working, and sulks if I’m on a day off.
‘Those weekend staff don’t know if they need a shite or a haircut,’ he complains.
Two weeks into my job and I’m allocated Harry as my key client. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that we get on so well and, where possible, the seniors try to match up the clients and key workers if they see a rapport. I read up on Harry’s fascinating history. He had been in the Royal Navy and had fought in World War II. He’d never married nor had children. It seemed such a waste. He cared for his elderly parents and inherited their house when they died, which he had now sold to pay for his care.
‘Bloody ridiculous state of affairs,’ he had said when I had discussed this part of his care plan with him. ‘You spend your life working your arse off, paying your taxes and serving your country. Then how do they repay you? I’ll tell you how. They say: “I’m very sorry Mr. Mackay but you’re no longer any use to us. Tell you what, you sell your house and give us back every penny that you and your family have ever earned.” That’s what!’ I nod in agreement. It is ridiculous. Considering some of the other residents had never owned their own homes and yet still receive the same care as Harry, but for free. Not their fault either. Life can deal you some crap, but still it seems
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