Mummy W’s Eulogy

Posted on March 25, 2026 by thepogblog

Part of me doesn’t want to post this, but part of me does.

So much of my blog has been about Mum and while there were many people at her funeral early this month who heard this in person; maybe there are others who read this who would like to understand who Mum was before she became the star of Tuesday TV.

So, I wrote Mum’s eulogy.  It felt like the final thing I could do for her.  This is it:

Google tells me that in the eulogy I should take you chronologically through Mums life and her achievements.

But I figure that you already know the order of things in Mums life.

And achievements that are ‘things’ that don’t mean anything at this point.  So, I thought I’d take a slightly different angle.

Our Mum, Wife, Nanny, Sister, Aunt, Cousin, Friend…

She was a bit like a Cadbury’s chocolate éclair, wasn’t she?

Bear with me here.

Eclairs have this strong, hard, tough, – some might say occasionally irritating – exterior.

I think you’ll all know Mum had at least one cancer.

She actually had four different types.  All unrelated to each other.

A total of at least five times.  And somehow she survived them all.

She also survived a massive stroke between the third and fourth cancers and did the dementia dance for the last few years.

Strong, hard, tough.  

If you hold them in your hand, or just keep them close, Eclairs get a little softer, a little less hard on your teeth.

______________________

There’re not many benefits of someone getting dementia, but one for me was taking Mum to see family and friends over the last couple of years and listening to the stories they told her to remind her of the past – a place that became easier to access than her present.

And then, when I called you to let you know Mum had decided she had a better place to be, you told me more stories and details.

______________________

Like at secondary school when she took Jean under her wing as others gave Jean a hard time. Mum and Jean maintained that friendship over 60 years.

And in the last couple, have been to the pub together more times than I have…

Strong, but soft.

Riding her bike with Joanne – her then young niece – on the back.  Joanne tells us she was rather sturdy with her ‘butcher’s hands’, and Mum was always tiny.

But you know…

Strong, but soft.

Befriending Erica – then a young German woman new to the UK with very limited English conversation skills.

Erica used to pick up wool from the wool shop Mum worked at.  Mum apparently had no issues with the language barriers and invited her out.  And that was the start of another 60 plus year friendship.  Apparently wool conquers all…

But not always…

In their 20’s Mum decided to teach her colleagues – including Shirley and Gerry – crochet in their lunch break.  I’ve been told in recent weeks that Mum was ‘very patient’.

Frankly, I find that very hard to believe.

I have a memory of a good few years back when I was told that actually everyone was scared of Mum in those lessons, and nobody progressed very far.

That sounds more like Mum.  She tried to teach Sally, Anna and me at different times.

There is no evidence of Sally achieving anything.

Anna’s coaster became a triangle made of wool, sweat and tears.

And I ended up buying a book and teaching myself.

Mum was amazing at crochet, knitting and sewing (and I mean really amazing), but truly, truly terrible at trying to teach anyone else the skills…

In contrast to her love of wool, in her 20’s Mum had a sense of adventure and ability to do stuff that I still find surprising.

Weekend camping trips to Cornwall with Shirley, her husband, Mum and Dad…in a Mini.

And just one two-man tent.

Apparently, Dad (6ft 2) slept in the Mini and a second tent was acquired the next day.  How they fitted two tents, four people and presumably at least a spare pair of pants and socks each in a Mini is beyond my comprehension.

But was obviously good training for the holiday with the five of us in a Mini Metro years later though, when the twins (still very small) were infamously transported from Kent to Tintagel in Cornwall in a cardboard box in the boot…

On another escapade in the Mini, Dad told us that they borrowed a roof rack from Mum’s Dad.  It was in pieces and Dad didn’t have time to put it together properly, so he used string, much to Granddad’s consternation.

But Mum went along with it.

And there was the holiday driving through Europe where Dad hadn’t considered foreign road signs or etiquette and wrote the car off at a crossroads in Switzerland….

She took all these things in her stride

Still, she got her own back when she and Jean drove to get some bread on a camping holiday in France (Dad informed us ‘it was 200 yards – who needs a car for 200 yards?!’).

The car was quite close to the tent.  A tree was quite close to the car…The tree had exposed tree roots. As Mum drove away the car caught, pivoting on the tree roots.  Dad said Mum and Jean ended up walking.  And there was a fair bit of see-sawing involved to free the car….

I don’t think I ever saw Mum drive a car if Dad was around. I imagine that could have been that point in France that decided that…

______________________

Mum loved walking.

When I was young, and a walk looked imminent I tended to develop a tummy ache.  Mum always told me that funnily enough a walk was exactly what I needed to fix that…  and I never learned.

As we got older, we realised that not walking with Mum was not an option and Easter walks and Boxing day walks and a fair few in between were non-negotiable if you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her.

(Dad rarely came owing to the issue of having a ‘bone in his leg’.  Apparently a much more convincing get out than a tummy ache).

We never ever took a map.  And I do not remember any walks with Mum where we didn’t get lost.

There was at least one where we ended up in the back garden of someone in Ide Hill with Mum assuring us that ‘it’s definitely this way….’

______________________

Walking also resulted in finding things – bits of wood, interesting stones, trunks of trees that would all look good in the garden…

One holiday to Greece Mum knew that there was no way Dad was going to let her pack a large lump of rock she thought would look great at home into their suitcase.  So, she emptied out most of her handbag and popped it in there.

It was hard to lift the bag and throw it over her shoulder as if it was its usual weight, but she managed it.

(Stubbornly tough)

And the first Dad knew of her shenanigans was when a large piece of rock appeared on a windowsill back at home.

She wasn’t so lucky a few years later when she put rather a large number of ‘interesting pebbles’ in her large handbag; a very stern official at the airport made her remove all but one.

That one is – I think – on one of the tree stumps in her favourite place – the garden – that has collected many ‘interesting bits’ over the years.

______________________

And of course, Cadburys chocolate Eclairs have that almost surprising, hidden, delicious melt in the mouth chocolate centre.

That side of Mum was never more obvious to me than when Cash – her grandson – and Willow – her granddaughter – were born.

She knitted prolifically, she played, she smiled from ear to ear around them and (I suspect the bit that made it so lovely), she gave them back to their Mums.

Cash remembers his Nanny playing on the see saw with him at the playground.

Willow remembers her Nanny playing games on her iPad with her – somewhat bittersweet as this was when Mum had dementia and they played as equals.

But she didn’t just have a soft centre for them.

Mum didn’t dish out hugs and kisses the way some Mums do.  She showed her soft centre in other ways.

I didn’t appreciate it at the time (I was small), but my sixth birthday landed not quite three weeks after the twin’s birth.  Despite that disastrous timing, Mum still managed to make me a fairy castle birthday cake that year.  A feat involving sponge, butter cream, upside down ice cream cornets and iced flowers.  She must have been beyond exhausted.

One of the best things to come home from school to was the smell of Mums home-made chocolate chip cookies.  They were as amazing as her knitting.

And if I’d been really good, I was allowed four.  FOUR.  (Sally and Anna inform me they were only allowed two each. I mean, they are practically one person, so that seems fair).

And then, when I was at university I got a parcel from Mum.  It was a shoe box.  And it was full of runner beans from Mum and Dad’s allotment.  I’m pretty sure it cost more to send them than it would for me to buy them, but the gesture was so very lovely.

It turns out Mum sent Sally a parcel to university too.  Hers contained her favourite – Applewood smoked cheese. I think Sal got the better parcel…

Hidden in that centre Mum had a funny and fun side too.

We were remembering the other day how she found it hilarious if someone fell over – Anna most recently on a local walk with Mum, me while being chased by goats on one of Mums epic walks in Ithaca, Greece, Sally when she tripped, or struggled pushing her wheelchair.  Mum had a lot of time for our lack of balance…

Mum developed a seriously sweet tooth in the last few years and liked nothing better than a trip out for coffee and a cake.  She might not have been fast on her feet by that point, but we all learned very quickly that she would ‘forget’ she’d eaten her own and swipe your cake if you were not fast enough…and then deny eating anything at all, sometimes believing that, sometimes with a naughty glint in her eye…

______________________

There is a sadness that Mum has gone.  But Mum really went a good while ago.

And she was living her best life right up to that last week – table tennis on the Monday, chocolate biscuits straight after breakfast when I went to see her on the Tuesday.

We made sure that Mum was never alone in her last few days with Sally, Anna, Dad or I with her every single minute.

A lady bird flew in her room on the Thursday night, then disappeared.

Early on Saturday morning Anna spotted two robins on the chairs in the garden below Mums window.

A little later that morning, we found that ladybird from Thursday again and Sally set it free out the window.

Mum died an hour or so later.

If you believe that sort of thing, maybe the robins were Nanny and Grandad – Mum’s Mum and Dad coming to fetch her, and the ladybird we released was Mums spirit.

Or maybe that’s just too fanciful.

But I hope that its true.

For now though, Mum / Mummy / Nanny / Old Thing / Mummy Walker : Night night. Love you. See you in the morning.

Posted in dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday, Tuesday TV | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The best things come in twos

Posted on February 24, 2026 by thepogblog

Today is my sisters birthday.  It turns out (after a DNA test) that they are identical. (I’m very proud though that as the big sister, I can tell the difference between then even when they can’t 🙂)  They are quite similar though, aren’t they?

On what might seem like a complete tangent (but trust me here), my Aunt and cousin bought my Mum an amazing amaryllis for Christmas.  The amazing thing about it was that the bulb was encase in wax – no soil and no room for water.  Despite this, it bloomed from Christmas through to the end of January.

When we cleared Mum’s room the amaryllis had the ends of a bloom so I brought it home with the intent of removing the wax to discover what the bulb looked like after all that effort.  A couple of weekends ago I went to do that, cut away the old stems and discovered a new one:

I didn’t see how that bulb would have the energy to do very much more, but today, on my sisters birthday two flowers came out perfectly:

Twin blooms.  I think Mum might have sent them a present.  🙂 💜

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Night night Mummy W

Posted on January 28, 2026 by thepogblog

Last Monday Mum played table tennis.

On Tuesday she couldn’t remember, so I showed her the photo and she informed me that  ‘actually I was very good at it’.  (Coordination even pre stroke and dementia wasn’t one of Mum’s strengths, so that made me giggle).

Then she let me take this photo, and smiled nicely because I told her it was for her sister:

On my way home that evening I missed a call from the care home because I was driving.  My sister took it.  Mum had had a stroke.

There’s a lot of stuff that happened in the middle, but essentially Mum was barely alone from that point.  And by Thursday morning me and my sisters had moved into her room at the care home with her.  We took Dad to visit in the day and we slept in shifts on the floor at night.

I wrote this on my personal face book page so if you know me there you may have seen it.  I was going to write something different here, but for once, I am lacking in words so:

On Saturday morning the rain and the grey clouds of the last few days rolled away and left enough blue sky to make a pair of sailors trousers. Sure enough, just like Mum always said, those trousers meant that the sun came out and the day was a beautiful, crisp one.

It turned out it was also the perfect day for Mum’s body to stop fighting and finally let go.

We made sure that Mum was never alone in her last few days, for even a second.

We know that this was absolutely the right thing for Mum as most of her left us a while ago. That doesn’t make her dying any easier though, and she has left a unique gap that is entirely hers in each of our hearts.

Since our childhoods we have always sent each other to bed with ‘Night night, love you’

Mummy W:  Night Night.  Love you.

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My new face

Posted on January 16, 2026 by thepogblog

At some point last year I was going out somewhere with Mr R and had one of those moments when I just could not remember…in this case, it was whether I’d put my make up on or not.

I don’t wear much make up at all, but Mum always told me I looked like a pig without mascara and eyebrows, so I always did them at a minimum.

I waved my face in Mr R’s direction and asked him to tell me if I was good to go or if I needed to go and find my (very small) makeup bag.  He looked at my face…looked a bit longer and…told me he couldn’t tell.

And I think it was that point that I just stopped bothering.  I pencilled in my eyebrows so I didn’t look permanently shocked and just got on with things.  Nobody seemed to notice.

And I stopped looking in the mirror so much because I didn’t need to, then I almost avoided looking in the mirror because I wasn’t keen on what I saw anyway.  It’s amazing how fast those ‘laughter lines’ start finding things really  hysterical and how rapidly your eyelids start to droop and your face…well, it all drops a bit really.  And don’t get me wrong – I don’t mind getting older – it’s an honour too many people I’ve known wont get – but it’s still sometimes a bit of a surprise how fast things happen.

But it started to feel a bit rubbish.  And even if I did try, I couldn’t make my reflection one I liked.  So for Christmas I asked for a make up lesson.  And now I have been 😁

And as you’d expect, it didn’t go smoothly.  The teacher was a beautiful French lady who assured me when I checked that she had experiences other ‘challenging’ clients.  But I imagine not any quite so cack handed and unable to follow instructions.  I went with ‘full’ make up on (this is going out to something fancy in my case) so she could see what I did and if any of it was good to keep.  We established that mostly it wasn’t – either because the make up was not good for ‘older’ skin or the look was good in the 90’s but less so now… She took it all off and started again.

She then did half of my face and I did the other half, a little bit at a time.  I learned to use fingers (‘Not that one!  Never that one!’) and exactly where to put the absolute minimum of things I’d never heard of (‘Did I say to put it there?’… ‘Um, yes?’….’No, no!  Here!’).

I learned about lines and blending (‘stroke, not pat!’) and tricks to make things seem less droopy and wrinkly and (hopefully) fresher. I also learned that even with the kindest, most patient of teachers, there is not a limit on how many times I can feel the need to apologise.

And now I’ve bought all the bits of make up she suggested online and while I may look like a clown for a while as I try to remember the right fingers, and get the quantities right and put the damn stuff at exactly the right point, maybe in a while I’ll look like a respectable lady who cares just enough to make an effort.  Until then, apologies to anyone I bump into in real life 🙂

Photos below – top is before and below is after.  I’m very much hoping you didn’t need telling that!

.

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A parental update

Posted on January 15, 2026 by thepogblog

It’s been a while (6 months) since I did a video with Mum for all sorts of reasons, but if you were missing her, I did a quick update here including a quick tour of her room, which is really rather lovely.  I think the food is too, despite her comment (at least the lemon squash is up to scratch!)

Mum and I walked to her room from the lounge.  As I opened the door and she walked in, she very happily greeted someone with ‘oh hello again, I saw you yesterday and now you’re here again!’

It’s pretty slow progress behind Mum and I had enough time to wonder if perhaps one of my sisters was there, but as I followed behind I realised the room was empty.

‘Who were you talking to, Mum?’ I asked.

‘Them!’ she said pointing at….

…the radiator.

‘Lovely’ I said.  Because that’s just how it is sometimes.

And in other parental news, Dad has reached the heady heights (weights) of 9 stone 2.2!  The carnage created to achieve this has been worth it.  I think. 😬

And that’s about it.  Here is a lovely smiley photo of each of them 🙂

Posted in care home, Cooking, COPD, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, muddled life, muddled life guide, stroke, Tuesday, Tuesday TV | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Spreading wooly smiles

Posted on January 9, 2026 by thepogblog

Around Christmas time I heard an appeal from the RSPCA on the radio for people to make blankets for cold furballs.  I can’t stand the thought of a cold furball, so I got crocheting and made this one:

We have an RSPCA branch near by and I had some bits for their charity shop so I took it down today.  It turns out that most RSPCA branches are actually independent and self funded, and in the case of the one here didn’t have a connection to the central campaign.

But they were SO happy to get a brand new blanket that a cat could have there and be re-homed with that it seemed just as important at the Pet Food Bank.  So  I left that one with them and maybe I’ll send the next one that I started last night in the post to the central campaign.

I just thought I’d pop this on here incase anyone else has bit of wool to use up and a bit of time to knit or hook one while watching TV or travelling on a train or being a passenger in a car or (If you knit or crochet, you know this list can go on and on).

It seems like such an easy way to help a fur ball that needs a bit of extra love and to spread a smile.  Everything (other than the wool and your time) you need is here here  🙂

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No aliens to see here

Posted on January 8, 2026 by thepogblog

Once upon a time (around a decade ago), many miles away (Bumpkinsville), my brain used to do a weird thing on quite a regular basis.  At least, I think it’s weird; I guess other people’s brain might do the same in the same circumstances.

You see, in those days, I lived alone in Pog Towers and could work from home for a few days at a time, so often I wouldn’t see or speak to anyone for a few days.

And then, when I went to work I used to leave at around 5am (because, well, people) to drive to the station.  And because I lived in real Bumpkinsville, and because it was silly o’clock, I’d rarely see anyone else on the drive.  And my brain had two places it would often go to:

  1. There’s nobody around.  Is it actually a bank holiday and you forgot?
  2. There’s nobody around. Did the world end and you are actually the only person left?

Now I live in a busier area, with Mr R and I can’t remember the last time I had either of these thoughts.

Until today when my brain clearly decided to make up for lost time.

As Percy and I went up the road, across the nature reserve and over a field I realised it was really, really dark.  And we were late leaving, so it should have been lighter than usual.

Then we got to the woods and the ground looked wet, but one step in and as I did one of the cartoon leg wheel things it became clear the entire trail was black ice.

And then I realised, despite being late, and presumably because it was pitch black, there were no birds singing.  It was silent.  And dark.  And really rather spooky.

Now for this next bit you need to know that I wear glasses.  And without them things are…well…very soft focus and rather blurry.  And I don’t plod with glasses on as they steam up.

So it’s pitch black, spooky and so icy that I’m picking my way along the side of the path so my trainers can grip something and I realise I cant see Percy’s light, so I call and call and in the distance I can see a red triangle of light with two small orange lights above it slowly coming towards me and my brain decided to make up for all that time it’s behaved and informs me:

‘There has been an alien invasion.  That is why it is pitch black and why no birds are singing.  That thing coming towards you is either an alien coming to get you or a UFO full of them’.

And I actually froze.  Nearly half a century I’ve been around for now, and I still panicked, just incase my brain had it right and a Thursday morning alien interaction was on the cards. (To be fair to me, we did acquire a ghost in the house where we stayed in Cornwall over new year, so my rational self is having a bit of a crisis of confidence at the moment).

It didn’t.  No aliens.  No UFO.  It was Percy, his collar light blurry in my soft focus sight with his two eyes reflecting my head torch above.  Obviously it was.  But if I’m honest, I still wasn’t 100% sure until the delayed dawn started and the birds let me know they were waking up with their dawn chorus.

Lordy, we’re only a week in.  I’m not sure I can cope with this level of excitement throughout 2026.  It looks like it might be an interesting one 🙂

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Retaining information

Posted on December 12, 2025 by thepogblog

Someone in Mum’s dementia unit can read and retain information.  Dont get me wrong, this is great.  For them.  Less so for people like me.

Because, to keep people safe in a home such as Mum’s there are key pads on the doors and to use the lifts.  The codes (apart from the main door) are written in these little pictures hung by the key pads:

Only the picture next to the lift on the dementia unit has been removed.  Which is not ideal as I just cannot remember sequences of numbers for more than around 20 seconds (other than the phone number of my childhood home and the zip code of my friends address when she moved to America age 11.  Neither are useful as Mum and Dad changed numbers when they moved around 15 years ago, and my friend only went to the US for two years.  Why on earth would my brain doesn’t remove these numbers from my memory to make way for others, I don’t know).

Apparently I can’t even remember the number long enough to remember to write it down.  So each week I have to go and find a purple tunic person to give me the code and hope nobody interrupts my walk back to the lift as I repeat the sequence over and over…

So I’m not great with remembering numbers, but it turns out that I’m not good at remembering anything at the moment.  I only remembered to sign some of the Christmas cards I sent this year.  The reason I know this is that some people have recognised that anything with a crochet element can often be traced back to me and checked.  Others may be having a Valentine element to their Christmas courtesy of yours truly.

Then yesterday a solicitor (oh the joys of equity release!) contacted me as I’d only sent her half a document.  It was the important half, but apparently these legal people are picky and they wanted the rest.  I was told I’d I sent the first half in October.  I had absolutely no recollection until she sent me a photo.  And then I had no idea where it might be.  I went through all my Mum and Dad folders. Nothing.  I assumed it must be at Dad’s so I called and asked him to look through his folders.  Nothing.  I spent 2.5 hours yesterday afternoon separating every piece of paper in my Mum and Dad folders, my work folders, all of mine and Mr R’s paperwork and his and my desk drawers.  I even moved my desk and checked behind the radiator. Nothing.  Just as I was about to serve dinner I remembered another Mum and Dad folder I have (there is alot).  It’s the original one.  It was the first document in there.  Of course it was.

So while numbers are a known problem, I suspect that my head is currently just too full for any more information.  I shall concentrate on emptying it over Christmas, until only fairy lights remain 🙂

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Cracking on with Tuesdays

Posted on December 5, 2025 by thepogblog

This Tuesday I joined Mum for breakfast as there seemed rather a lot to get done and I’ve discovered it is possible to fit more into the day if you simply get up earlier and crack on.

However, the level of ‘cracking on’ that can happen in a room of people with dementia is a little on the low side, and this was highlighted by a loop of conversation around Mum’s marmalade on toast that went a little like this:

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I’m waiting for him’ (nodding at the man sitting next to her for no particular reason I could identify)

Me ‘I think he’s done, if you want to start’.

Mum: ‘I can’t’

Purple tunic carer (Mum loves everyone in a purple tunic.  I’m thinking of getting one): ‘Would you like to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I am’ (clearly not)

Purple tunic carer: ‘Here, pick it up like this’ (helping mum grasp the toast)

Mum: ‘Oh’

*Purple tunic carer walked away, mum put down the toast*

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I don’t have things to eat it with.’

Me: ‘You pick it up with your hands like the lady just showed you’

Mum: (looking incredulous) ‘Don’t be so silly; of course you don’t!’

The three of us did the loop for a while before Mum decided she was giving up on the toast and going to her room.  I grabbed her walker and tried to manoeuvre her to hold the handles.  Obviously I’d created a level of mistrust by suggesting using hands to eat toast with and Mum was not keen on following my suggestion.  And then I felt my scarf tightening around my neck… the lady who was sitting with her back to Mum had reached around and taken a shine to it, and presumably wanted a closer look.  I stepped slightly towards her to confirm that no, it wasn’t from Paris; I’d actually made it myself so yes, I was sure of that and to thank her for her interest, as Mum finally decided that the walker handles were for holding and started pushing away.  Just as the other lady started lacing her fingers through the granny squares that made up my scarf…

Not for the first time I felt a little like I was in some weird sitcom as I tried to step in front of the walker with the bottom half of my body to stop Mum wandering off alone, while unwinding the scarf from my neck so I didn’t get strangled, at the same time as gently removing the lady’s fingers from the holes they had wound themselves through. There was not a purple tunic in sight.

Anyway, we managed.  We got to Mum’s room.  Mum decided she didn’t want to be there now, so we went back.  And the toast had gone.  So Mum sat in a comfy seat near the Christmas tree and I left her listening to carols.

I went to Dads and (I am rather proud to say) cooked 22 meals for him, from scratch in three hours. I did have to clean all surfaces – including the windows – before I left, but we’ll gloss over that.  (I already mentioned that on Facebook and Instagram, so sorry for the additional brag here if you follow the blog there 🙂)

So I did manage to crack on for part of the day, anyway 🙂

 

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Musical Bingo, anyone?

Posted on November 28, 2025 by thepogblog

Now Mum has moved to the dementia unit at the care home, visiting has become a bit more of a gamble.  There’s a lot more activities for Mum to take part in and the team have no qualms with ‘encouraging’ visitors to get involved…

That is how a few weeks ago I became heavily involved in a game of musical bingo which had just started.  About ten residents were in a loose horse shoe shape in their armchairs, with the staff member front and centre pausing and plying clips on a CD.  I sat next to Mum who clearly had no concept what was going on but seemed to be enjoying herself;  I think the same was probably true of everyone there.  I started humming to a clip and realised it was on Mums bingo card so covered it with a chip for her.  The man to her right was having similar issues so I helped him out too.  And the lady on our left…well she was having a great time stacking counters willy nilly, so I left her to it.  I got a little more involved in the singing, but was totally outdone by the gentleman we’ll call Tommy who was singing each clip…and then as much of the rest of the song as he knew with the gusto of a West End star.

This carried on through the likes of ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, Cliff Richard and The Beatles.  A couple of times Tommy went quiet and I watched him and the ladies either side to realise that they were passing a pink slipper up and down their row.  Indeed, the lady to his left was only wearing one, but hadn’t seemed to realise the one that was being passed back every so often was the one she had lost. Up and down it went between the varying vocal arrangements and the suggestions of what the song could be.  At one point Tommy was passed the slipper, looked at it in surprise like it was the first time he’d seen it, raised each foot individually to check he wasn’t missing it, decided he wasn’t, and stuffed it behind a cushion.

The whole bingo game (38 tracks!) took most of the time I had planned to visit, but I’m not sure I’ve giggled that much visiting Mum before.  I admit I did practically hide the following week when everyone was being taken to a concert with a live singer (I got trapped in one of those Mum’s first week.  It’s an acquired taste…) Sadly, I didn’t visit on Giant Snakes and Ladders Day which looked quite fun:

Side note:  I’m writing this trying to show you the humour, because there is humour.  There has to be.  While people take great pains to tell you ‘what a horrible disease dementia is’ (absolutely) and how it is ‘cruel’ and ‘robs people of who they are’ (couldn’t agree more), I’ve not yet met someone with a relative with dementia who doesn’t laugh at it.  Because if you didn’t, you’d break with the sadness and frustration of it.  So if I sound a bit flippant, trust me; it’s how it’s done.

We weren’t finished there though.  Mum decided that she needed the toilet so I took her to her bathroom, helped her, and let one of the carers know (we found out that if Mum has a poo on your watch and you don’t tell anyone it doesn’t go in her charts and they think she is constipated and medicate for that, which obviously then has it’s own issues the next day).  ‘Lovely, said the carer.  Did you get a look?  Could you give it a number?’ And showed me this:

And once again I was reminded that there are so many things I don’t know that I don’t know.  Yet. 🫣

And on my way home I wondered what will be on musical bingo when my generation are in the homes.  Micheal Jackson, Bad ? Bon Jovi, living on a Prayer? Prince, Gett Off? The Shamen, Ebeneezer Good? Oh my God, it will be so much fun!

🙂

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