Sunbeams

The thing about sunbeams is that they are supposed to shine. Throughout the day. That's quite a tall order, even for a 40-something, well-practised, full-on beam. But today is off to a running start. It's 8.30am, and Mum hasn't yet called to say that there is a strange woman on the end of the phone telling her to try again later. The boys are on their way to school with only a 5 minute argument about why boring parents confiscate aggressive, unfunny PS2 games. We compromise. Promise to find the game and SB will observe the Not To Be Played rule. No wonder Britain doesn't have a written constitution.

Mum is washed and spruced and ready for the day, and the lovely young girl who has come to help out has offered to play the cello for her. Mum would love it. Also discover that her regular cassette of tablets have not been picked up this week and so she has been without medication for three days. The lovely cellist leaves, and leaves the electric plate on full heat. Lucky I was here, and lucky I noticed. Lucky, lucky.

Five phone calls and I get to speak to the District Manager in charge of home care. Sounds very sympathetic. I assure her that my criticism is directed at the new rota system, and not at any of the ladies who attend Mum. She, we, I, really am lucky. Thanks to the ladies here, Mum is saved from the institutional care that she so fears. But since the rota changed, all the keys to the house have been lost, the keysafe broken, and like buses, the worthy ladies arrive either not at all, or in convoy. Still, they are caring and compassionate for the most part, and are careful to respect Mum's dignity. Even if she reminds "staff" to "wipe their feet".

When I was at university, I boosted my meagre stipend as a mopper and marmelade spreader in a care home in England. The home looked like the sort of place, that if you had to make the difficult choice of putting a relative in care, this would be first choice.

But Matron was all profit margin before patients. Ladies were dressed, but sat in wheelchairs without underwear "to cut down laundry bills". Elizabeth, a bright 24 year old, cruelly struck with MS, had to wait over the weekend before Matron would sanction the buying of cream to ease her muscle spasms. When I brought some to her after I went off-duty, Elizabeth broke down in tears. It was such a little thing. The young policeman,also with MS who soiled his sheets every night, turned his face to the wall while I cheerfully cleaned up the mess. A tall, blue-eyed and pretty 20-year old sunbeam was too painful a reminder of all he had lost.

My brother sees homes and sees the freedom from the day-to-day grind of mopping, reminding and not minding the querulous complaints. But while I am self cast in the role of Guardian Angel, residential care even with its glossy Homes and Gardens brochures must remain our last and final choice