There’s a New Primary Carer in Town
Well, there’s a new carer at home, actually, but town sounds so much cooler. Like an old-time Western sheriff!
My dear wife, Jane, has taken a few days off to attend an ayurvedic yoga retreat, so I’m without the care of She Who Really Must Be Obeyed. (I’ve liberally adapted this phrase, which is just a nicer way of scribing, from English writer John Mortimer. It’s dryly deployed by his most famous character, a barrister named Horace Rumpole, to refer to his wife, so it’s entirely fitting that I’ve nicked it. At least I’ve admitted my guilt up front!)
My eldest son, George, has kindly taken over for the next few days. Fortuitously, he worked for 10 years in a residential care home, though admittedly as an activities organizer. Occasionally, he did care work when the staff were stretched, but he never liked that aspect. It’s a shame for both of us, because even if I survive a bit longer (To be delivered in a trembly voice: “I’m 64, you know …”), I will never, ever play bingo. You can count on it!
My youngest son, Jack, has also just arrived, since George just secured a new temporary job at New Wimbledon Theatre for panto season. The venue is large and grand enough that it would fit right in at London’s West End. He was called in for a day of training on Wednesday, but it was called off due to a COVID-19 outbreak.
The mayhem continues, as the dog we often look after had to suddenly stay with us because his adoptive parents have to go to Italy for a family emergency. He arrived on Wednesday.
It’s all go.
Actually, it’s probably like this every week. Only, I don’t usually have to be this involved, living in my somewhat-protected, serene world of the chronically ill! I’m “King John,” as my most regular professional career jokingly put it. I countered with the fact that there hasn’t been a King John since the first disastrous one! Though I had to admit that the kings did also have their own bottom cleaners, known as the Groom of the Stool. The “stool” refers to the portable toilet they sat on, rather than anything that came out of them!
Of course, this would be the week that the only irreplaceable pipe on my anal catheter developed a puncture. Luckily, or perhaps foresightedly, I always keep a Swiss Army knife and a role of electrical tape in my man bag. It’s actually more like my own “Home Alone” disability survival kit.
However, this delay threw my timing off. I have one hour to shower and do the other thing. Suffice it to say that I got my water injection levels seriously wrong! The boys had to deal with the resulting river of effluent that night.
Fortunately, an emergency anal catheter is set to arrive later this afternoon.
All is well. Namaste.
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