Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Nuclear Picnic Anyone?
I've just spent an afternoon in an old people's home, helping my mother move into their new premises. While we waited for her belongings to catch up (which they didn't) things became surreal. I was reading celebrity cellulite articles to her to try to dispel her anxiety about the whereabouts of her toothbrush and nightie. 'Did Alex really want to marry Jordan?' we wondered together. This lead me to ask her about her own long marriage to my father. What were the happiest times?
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
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