Extreme old age, post-triple-surgery and a blindspot regarding domestic skills have conspired to prove I cannot - alone - attend to VR, my unwell wife of 65 years. Carers are filling in the gaps.
Virtually all are women, working long long hours for (I suspect) low pay. They are uniformed, brisk, adaptable to the peculiarities of our house and - despite regulations to prevent coercion - expert at getting VR to do what she believes she cannot do. And won't do for me.
Carer: You going out?
RR: Just to pick up The Guardian.
Carer: In that shirt?
RR: Wha...?
Carer: It's not clean.
Meekly I changed the shirt I'd worn for no more than a week. And laughed delightedly all the way to the filling station. VR's the patient and is treated with sympathy. I'm the inefficient dogsbody with impossibly low standards of personal hygiene. But I believe commitment to a cause outweighs politeness.
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