In a World Gone Mad: Thursday 28 May 2020

Thursday 28 May 2020

I’m not going to blart on about  lack of sleep for a hundred and three paragraphs because I’m boring myself now. But Max kept me up again last night. He woke me going downstairs to get chocolate—and have a cigarette. Half an hour later he woke me going downstairs to let the dog out—and have a cigarette.

Arthur got up and I led him back to bed. While I was up, I shouted downstairs to Max.

‘Are you coming back to bed?’

‘Yeah, in a bit. I need to let the dog out but I’m just giving her a little while to let her  supper go down. Go back to sleep, I’ll be up at some point.’

‘You’re going to wake me again when you come in.’

It was bollocks. He’d used the cat as an excuse the other night, last night it was the dog. She goes through the night without any bother at all.

‘Max why can’t you just stay in in bed at night?’

‘Okay, I’ll stay downstairs then.’

I didn’t believe him and lay awake from two until six waiting for the door to go. I was up to see to Arthur another twice in that time. Max came up at eight.

I got some sleep.

This morning I nearly fell down the stairs. I come down with dogs and cats and they get under my feet. I can’t hold the banisters because Arthur either washes his hands fifty times when he’s used the loo, or he doesn’t wash them at all.  I can’t use any towel in the bathroom, including, when life comes out of lockdown, ones that will be put out for visitors. My routine is compromised.

Of old, I would go to the bathroom in just a towel, Andy never gets up early and when he was at work we had a bathroom order of routine. It sounds regimented but needed to be done to sort out the use of bathroom by order of leaving the house. I had my towel around me and everything I needed was in the bathroom. I had a shower every morning, like normal people do, and prepared for the day.

Now my morning always starts by seeing to Arthur. I’m not comfortable being in a dressing own and knowing that I’m naked underneath in case the time comes when I have to hold Arthur to prevent violence or him hurting himself. I have the next day’s clothes by my bed.

Since Lockdown I am liberated. For four decades I’ve had fresh underwear every day.  For the last thee months I’ve worn pants maybe three times when I’ve dressed for our music nights. I don’t wear underwear and it’s fantastic—I can recommend it. So, every night I grab a pair of black leggings and a tee-shirt and have them ready with my slippers by the bed.  I hate putting my clothes on before I’ve washed, because even in those thirty seconds they feel dirty. I dress, go to the bathroom with everything I need and strip.  Logic says that having my shower would make little time difference—but if I need to get out to Arthur fast, I can be in my clothes in twenty seconds. I bleach the sink and have a fast strip-wash, then put my clothes on my wet body because I don’t bring a towel with me. Don’t ask me why not, I have no logic for it, but I don’t. I clean my teeth, swill my face again with cold water and go back to the bedroom to dry my face, squirt deodorant, and brush my hair. My towels are kept in the bedroom with my razor, flannels, toothbrushes, hair dye, shampoo, and conditioner. I have to take everything I need with me every time. It’s a nothing adjustment to make mornings work—but it’s fucking inconvenient.

A new thing is that he’s spending more time in his room. It’s like a bedsit for him, with his reclining armchair, a coffee table, and his television. It’s the nicest room in the house and I envy him it. This is a good thing, but it has brought about changes. He has a brand-new carpet in his room. He has one small rug by the side of his bed, and we can’t use more because of the trip hazard, he only has one eye, so his judgement and balance are compromised. Arthur lives with a cup of tea in his hand at all times. Every door in the house has a tannin stain from the handle to the floor. His beautiful carpet—down about six weeks has a tannin runway from bed to door.

And Max is delivering his meals to his room.

Fuck that.

I will not.

I call him down to the table for his meals. He treats me like his servant. The man has no manners and will not say please or thank you. And the last two weeks, he often doesn’t have the courtesy to look at me when I put his plate in front of him. There is no reaction to us for making it, or to his food at all. He just grabs his fork and dives into it. The bad-mannered old bastard.  I’ll be buggered if I’m going to serve the new master of the house in his quarters—and then there’s the mess.

Max’s argument is that we get at least some of our meals in peace. My argument is that I’m too stubborn and he can come to the table if he wants to eat. Mx serves him—I call him.

And then there’s the slurping. He does the slurp and the, ‘ahh’ with every sip of his tea and I want to drown him in it. And as for the lifting his fork in slow motion and eating with his eye closed—for Christ sake, open your eye so you can see your food, you demented old fool.

Our drama this week is not limited to Arthur. We have had one of our regular Belle melt downs. I like Belle. Do I like her? Do I love her? That’s a tough one. I’m not sure where my feelings for her lie. As my partner’s daughter maybe, there is a spark of love for his children. We’ll stick with like for now.

Before we start on Belle, I’m going to list the illnesses and conditions that she’s claimed to have—all except perhaps anorexia are undiagnosed—in the past year.

Anorexia

Lupus

Asthma

COPD

ME

Chronic pneumonia

Pernicious anaemia

Arthritis

Rheumatoid Arthritis

Bi-polar disorder

Schizophrenia

Crones disease

Curvature of the spine

Auto immune disease

Night terrors

ADHD

Insomnia

Five wisdom teeth (the rest of us only have four)

Degenerative Lethargy

Somnambulism

Narcolespsy

Irritable Bowel Syndrome

And probably half a dozen others that I’ve forgotten.  I can add a few that she hasn’t mentioned.

Hypochondria

I Love Being in Hospital Syndrome

I’m Not Getting Enough Attention Disorder

I’m going to Scream and Cry Like a Little Bitch Disease

Belle is two people. They are distinct. They are separate and they couldn’t be further apart. Bi-Polar maybe—she’s very highly strung and could do with a good slap definitely. Max’s children are all spoiled brats.

We have good Belle and Bloody Awful Belle.

I love spending time with Good Belle, we get on well and can talk about anything. I enjoy our morning chats when the rest of the household is asleep, we sit at the kitchen table over coffee and have a couple of hours together most mornings when she stays. Belle is generous with her time. She will do anything for anybody if she’s that way out. She’s helpful and if she sees something that needs doing, she’ll get out a mop or the hoover and just do it. She puts her hand in her pocket to stand her round when we’re out, or if we’re in a shop, she will pick something up with her own things to compliment a meal and pay for it.

She and Max cook together when she stays—or sometimes she’ll cook for the family. I love watching them together. We have a glimmer of Bad Belle because she will have to be right about everything and they argue. Max is an excellent cook, but in Belleworld—she is better and puts him down a lot. But I love watching them work in the kitchen together, it’s lovely.

Bad Belle can play out over the coming  months—enough said.