An older friend of mine recently told me her children decided that she needed to go and live in a place where she will be looked after around the clock. She wanted to know from me how to stay sane when her independence has suddenly been confiscated. She had to make peace with the menu, she grimaced.
Forget about bacon, steak or anything fried. Porridge for breakfast, stewed vegetables for lunch, and custard for dessert – always custard, because apparently pensioners run on it. I advised her to befriend the kitchen staff.
A well-placed compliment might earn her an illicit slice of toast actually browned on both sides. Bedtime turned her into a rebel. “Lights out at nine?
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That’s not a rule, that’s a challenge!” she hissed. Now, she hides a torch under her pillow and reads smuggled in magazines like a rebellious teenager. “Yes, Velcro orthopaedic slippers are mandatory, but that doesn’t mean I can’t accessorise.
I add glitter, stickers or a racing stripe, depending on my mood,” she winked. “I show the hallway who’s boss when I shuffle past the TV room.” She dislikes being herded into a bus that smells like boiled cabbage, so she brings headphones and blasts lively music from the ’80s. Nothing says “I’m still alive” like headbanging to Wham!
while the driver insists on playing gospel hits. Sparks are allowed to fly over bingo, she sighs, but romance is policed harder than contraband liquor. If you so much as share a pudding with the opposite sex, the matrons will stage a wellness meeting. When she wants to leave for a family lunch, she has to fill out a form that makes the South African Revenue Service tax returns look easy.
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