Home Time

I’m waiting for the evening carer; it’s an agency these days.  I don’t know what time she’ll come. But you can be sure she’ll be in a rush, pulling on those disposable gloves making that smacking noise. Makes my teeth go on edge. I don’t like the rubber against my skin.  The one this morning smelt of cigarettes and BO. I wanted to wear my pink cardi and cameo brooch but it’s gone missing.  The agency sends all different ones, it’s pot luck which one you get.  Some are friendly enough.  A ‘How are we to today’?  and a ‘Hello Betty’. It’s all so informal.  I know it’s the way these days but for people of my generation we like a bit of respect.  One even called me gran.  I’m not her gran. One told me I should go into a home, said there’d be more company for me.  But this is my home.

I have the home meals service once a week, all labelled with cooking instructions. Tuesday’s shepherd’s pie is right tasty. Every Thursday I go to the lunch club at the Methodist’s hall. Mr Patel brings my pills and creams. I have a great bag of them regular as clockwork.  The Medicare man delivers my other personal bits which I won’t dwell on.  Mrs Collette from across the road does any bits of shopping I need, says it’s her ‘Christian duty’.  So you see I do have company of sorts.

My cup of tea went cold an hour ago and I dropped half the custard cream on the floor.  I tried to reach it with my grabber but only managed to make a crummy mess.

I hope it’s Jenny.  If I’m her last call she sometimes stays for a chat. Jenny says it’s not just a job.