Home Care, in their wisdom, are now dispatching carers (sorry, SCOs - Social Care Officers) from another office 15 miles away because apparently, there are none left in our neck of the woods! Met one poor soul this morning with a very puzzled Mum. SCO Robertson* had neither case history, nor meds, and diddlysquat idea of what was required. (You could have felled an ether equivalent of the Amazon, with the number of profiles and updates that I have emailed to TPTP). All she had was a name, a keysafe number and an address in a place that she didn't know and for which there is no streetmap. Laff, dear Reader, this is Caring.
Meantime, LGP returned happy and contented from her excursion to Edinburgh only to turf our supper in the loo! It had been defrosting in the sink in one of those freezer bags but LGP couldn't work this one out. Next you know, there are carrots in our bathroom. Asked if I would accompany her while she drove to the happening places so that she wouldn't be imprisoned in the house. Ye Gads.
Mr. Mac the gardener put in an appearance yesterday. Mum was delighted and skipped girlishly from the conservatory to the backdoor. Mr Mac had a sort of hounded look about him, but he definitely has potential as a mantlepiece man. (Aunty W's term for collectible men, of whom she has a goodly number!)
Mum accused Mary of winking at him. "I'm all right there", said Mum.
And so you are, Mum. So you are.
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