DEMENTIA CARE: LYING LIKE FUCK, TO GET SHIT DONE.

There is honesty in admitting to dementia being the problem. This is the case when buying products in the elderly care category. There's tax-reduction for certain conditions, and dementia qualifies for money off.
   At other times, you could skip the queue based on mentioning dementia. But care itself devours energy, and you find other ways to get things done.

I noticed the unbroken switch a week or two before. Hitting that switch in the kitchen, I wondered if something might be a bit off. No, just my imagination. I tried the switch again. No worries. The way I hit it, awkwardly, gave the impression that the switch was broken. Carry on.
   And carry on I did.
   Later in the month, one Sunday night I breezed through the kitchen on my way to kill a wild biscuit. I saw the switch had popped out slightly.
   Something in there snapped, and let the whole assembly shove loose in a misguided attempt to bust out of jail.

This called for a call, but not around midnight. I made a note to write a note reminding myself to call it in, come morning.

Morning came, and I breezed through the kitchen on my way to kill a wild biscuit. I knew I'd be in the queue, listening to pop hits of yesteryear, when I made the call. What would I say?
   They'd ask if I had an emergency. I decided I had an emergency. You can't leave a loose light-fitting around for a dementia patient to play with. I could mention elderly care. Hell, I might flat-out say I had to handle a dementia case.
   But I decided to lie and say I had an emergency, a very specific emergency they'd ask me about. Could I see inside the switch? Yes, the interior was exposed.

That's what I thought would happen when I dialled in. We dial in, even in the age of the touchscreen phone. I've decided this, so that you don't have to.

Call goes in. Music. I'm in the queue. It's not early morning. I wisely don't call as soon as the hotline is open for business. A massive queue forms for that, creating a massive queue.

Now I am number two in the queue. Old-fashioned ringing puts me through to John. (Not his real name. Okay, it totally was. But his name would be pronounced Johnny to rhyme with crony.)
   Is the wiring exposed?

I can play this like a drunken Muppet and say no. My problem will then be dealt with just before the end of time.
   It's easier to lie. Technically, I can see inside the switch. Metal. Okay, that's the spring. And the assembly is designed to keep that separate from the electricity supply.
   But metal is exposed.
   I lie. Yes. It is exposed.
   They'll get out to me as soon as possible. This means the nearest guy on the job will be interrupted between jobs, just for me. I hang up. A text comes through...
   The job is set for a four-hour period from 8.00 until noon. It is 11.20 in the morning. Within ten minutes, a van appears and a tattooed man emerges. He starts walking along, checking door numbers.
   I'd already opened the gate for him so he'd see the number more clearly.

By that time, the cared-for emerged from morning routine, and sat on a chair in the kitchen, ready to brush her teeth. She took great interest in the tattooed man fixing the switch.
   She pointed out that she knew that guy.
   Okay.
    That guy was deep into the wiring, and didn't turn to respond. Soon he was done, and he asked to use the toilet. He was granted that boon.
   I left him to discover the toilet had no lock on it, and to spot a sign on the back of the door warning against putting too much toilet roll down the lavatory at one time.
   Then he shouted farewell after his flush, and I left him to discover the sign on the back door warning him to tell me where he was going before he left the house.
   The new switch was the same as the old switch. Everyone who fits the right screw in place shears it off. Only the left screw holds the assembly tight to the wall. The right screw stops the plastic square from shifting up and down, true.

Maintenance never ends.

The sun split the trees, and I was asked to set out a chair. I placed it in the garden, and made busy tidying the path. Making sure the cared-for doesn't wander off, or start climbing into inaccessible areas, you have to spy out the land while you pretend to garden.
   But garden I did. A few overgrown patches bit the dust. I trimmed this, and cleared out that. We watched small grass-cutter tractors come and go and come and go again.
   Then a neighbour caught her eye, so off she went for a chat. I watched over the scene, checked traffic, and gave the okay to the trip. Just over the road, but a million miles away, she chatted to one neighbour and then the next.
   I held the dregs of her cold drink in one hand, and paid attention to the street. That's why the cold drink splashed onto the left shoe beneath my watchful gaze.
   Soon enough, the second neighbour brought her back across the road. Fuck knows what they talked about. There was laughter. No angry talk. That can happen...random anger.
   The epic garden scene was over. Clouds rolled in and hid the sun. I stopped baking. We went indoors for more drinks. In the morning, the clouds returned with a vengeance and granted cool prospects for the busy part of the day - taking in shopping.

I lied like fuck to gain priority treatment for a repair. It took less energy than explaining the dementia case to a stranger on the phone. Same result was achieved.
   And I needed a blog post, so there was that. The gardening was also a lie - an excuse to keep a wary eyeball on the scene, without seeming to spy. You can't look as though you are looking out for things all the time, even though you are.