Mr B says he thinks he deserves a treat.
He has a point. Has he not, after all, slept five nights in a row in the Not-The-Hospital
Hospital Bed without too many grumbles? Has he not survived over a fortnight without a cigarette - he who has smoked (as he has consistently informed his many critics over the years) since the age of twelve? Incidentally the best response to his oft-expressed
excuse for smoking was from the District Nurse who answered tartly: “So you’ve had plenty of time to see the error of your ways, then!”
tells me I am turning into a bully. He bases this most unjust accusation (in my humble opinion) on the fact that (I) I have hidden his baccy; (ii) I have insisted that he must forsake his comfy armchair for the Not-The-Hospital Hospital bed every night; and
(iii) I keep yelling “Feet! Feet!” at him every time we use Turner the Ambiturn to move him from one place to another.
The first two are self-explanatory
but I may need to clarify my behaviour when it comes to Turner the Ambiturn. Regular readers may remember me describing the fact that there are two large feet printed on the base of the Ambiturn lest there be any doubt about which piece of one’s anatomy
should be positioned thereon. Mr B, unfortunately, does not always place his feet exactly where they should be in order to make lifting and turning safe. “Feet! Feet!” I shout, often followed by a shriek of “Brakes! Brakes!” as he makes
to move before I have applied said brakes. It occurs to me that possibly Mr B should have received training on the Ambiturn as well as me - I imagine the Occupational Therapists assumed he would be the biddable type who would do exactly as he was told without
I check to see if the Youngest of the Darling Daughters thinks I may be turning into a bully but she comforts me with her assurance that I am
simply being firm. Is it not my job, after all, to ensure that when using the Ambiturn he is strong and stable. Now where have we heard that before?
I am prepared to agree that Mr B deserves a treat. His wish is my command, I tell him - and there’s no prize for guessing what he asks for. Kentucky Fried Chicken, courtesy of Colonel Sanders and the chicken-lickin’ crew.
You may remember that a few weeks back, most branches of KFC were closed due to an unfortunate lack of chicken. Mr B was, you may also recall, bereft. Today, our local store is up
and running again and I note with interest that the opportunity presented by the closure has been taken to carry out a bit of a revamp of the premises. The menu is still limited (though I am able to order Mr B’s three piece meal without difficulty) and
a large electronic notice above the counter advises customers of the fact, adding “But it’s not the fault of these guys” above three flashing arrows pointing down towards the heads of the staff on duty. I like that.
I carry Mr B’s treat back home on the back seat of my car and tell him all about the revamp, the limited menu and the flashing arrows. He is far too busy enjoying his meal to listen to me warbling
I am wondering where I could obtain a portable electronic notice-board which I could fix above my head. Every time Mr B accuses me of being a bully,
I could press a switch which would display three flashing arrows pointing down at my head, declaiming “Firm But Fair” or words to that effect.
the possibly lengthy meantime I decide I will just have to keep gently reminding him that everything I do is all for his own good. He beams his total agreement at me as he licks his fingers - at which point it occurs to me that while I’m talking Health
and Safety, he’s talking KFC…