DEMENTIA CARE: WINTER MAINTENANCE.

So far, with frost thickening as I glance into the winter darkness, there was only one reason to reach for the salt in its inaccessible bucket. Snow. The snow came and went. Now frost persists.
   Winter maintenance has a feel of impending darkness to it. It’s that business of finding yourself in a gloomy kitchen in do-nothing daylight and flicking that switch. But the kitchen stays dim. You look up, and that one light has popped its electrical clogs.
   It’s a minute after twelve and all the afternoon light is already in the rear-view mirror. You race to the cupboard for the replacement bulb. And there are many replacement bulbs. It’s a carer’s house, and half the building stores spares for the other half of the building.
   Out comes the folding step. Light off. Peer through the murk. Or, being in Scotland, the mirk. Without electrocuting yourself, smashing any fingers, scaring the tiny horses, or falling into the cooker, you replace the bulb before the sun finally sets two minutes after twelve.
   Slight exaggeration. The streetlights were still on until 9.00 and the security lights reluctantly shuffled off to bed nearer 10.00. You can tell it is raining without hearing the sound of mid-Atlantic water hitting your windows like gravel pellets. The darkness explains exactly the sort of clouds above you.
   The trees were in need of winter maintenance. Autumn rolls in and the leaves persist. Nothing to fix, just then. The trees had their summer trim, cutting back leaves so that you can still reach up there without having to use a shaky ladder.
   I replaced the shaky ladder for a wobbly electric knife the size of an old-time bicycle. That was manageable in summer. But full winter brings the bare branches into focus near sunset, which is the earliest I can reach them that day.
   The old secateurs lie indoors in retirement. I’m using a battery contraption that feels like a robot arm. It is time to trim all the branches back, and save myself too much trimming come summer.
   Tackling this now, in the teeth of a gale that blows sideways and upwards, swaddled in more layers than a polar explorer, I know that loads and loads of robotic snipping will ease my summer burden. This is the year I take that tree way down in winter.
   I just couldn’t be bothered using manual secateurs before. And, temporarily, I thought converting to electric ones was the height of folly. Well the height of the tree is the height of folly. Snipping, whirring, snipping, gear sounds, snipping. Whirring.
   For reasons beyond me, I was extra careful with the robotic shears. I counted my fingers out into the garden, didn’t leave any out there, and counted them all back indoors. That’s where they wrapped themselves around a coffee cup.
   Outdoor maintenance in winter always calls for coffee. And a treat to go with that coffee. If there’s a lot of maintenance to get through, I do it in reasonable stages to avoid freezing. And I don’t live above the Arctic Circle. The weather is mild.
   But accidents in ice, leading to hard surfaces, are no one’s friends. Could I reach the telephone under the layers of clothing? Would there be a point in shouting for help? Winter streets have that habit of being supremely empty. Even the air feels gone.
   Outdoor maintenance leads indoors to more of the same. If there’s indoor maintenance to see to, first you heat yourself next to the nearest available furnace. Then it’s down to the usual round of things.
   Luckily, the local authority is quite clear about Christmas and New Year bin pick-ups. Even so, I write out the dates and leave that piece of paper in the kitchen right next to the microwave. For carers, the microwave is your friend. Said it before. I’ll say it again. Though...the air fryer is now also something of a saviour.
   There are reminders on the computer. But a handy piece of paper next to the microwave reminds me to check what day it is. Nearer shopping day, I put a thing next to the microwave to remind me to order more of that thing.
   That’s always a small thing that’s easy to forget. But it sits there, glaring at me when I pass through the kitchen. That thing. Whatever that small thing is. It is ordered and it arrives. So the system works.
   We depend on supermarket deliveries. I started Christmas shopping for food in October, and all the way through to mid-December I never received this one persistently non-existent festive item.
   By then, I’d made alternative arrangements. The annual ritual is to hear that the Christmas slots have now been opened up. Instantly, the dates around Christmas are clogged. But there are plenty of weeks to book, so what is there to do here but sit with a coffee and order in repeatedly…
   Just ordered that order. Okay. Now add that order again, but a week later. And add another a week after that. Fill those slots, damn it. Looks like I won’t get that later slot, so I’ll just stagger what I am buying in and do two deliveries in one week. That way, the next week is covered. And the next week is covered, saving me a trip to town and gladiatorial combat in the aisles of death.
   Same festive cheer every year. All of it should be arranged by the start of December. I managed over 99% of it by the first of December, including wrestling the tree into place on Day One. That one non-existent thing never turned up. Even after New Year. Let me check again, now. Still listed. And still out of stock. Maybe this year. I was going to type maybe next year. True, true. Maybe next year.
   A lot of changes to the festive orders this year. But one thing won’t change. Have it all sitting there packing out two fridges and freezers. Minimise the risk of Covid. Also, minimise the risk of having to shop while everyone else is heaving through the supermarket like a wave of despair.
   So. Indoor maintenance. Use the computer to order ahead. Order often and order early. This avoids having to trek to town, trek through town, and slog home on a bus. Or through the streets, littered as they are with dead dreams at this time of year.
   Heating is vital, but gives no trouble. If anything, it gets too warm here and there. Seeing winter in is all about seeing a mild winter in, hoping not to run out of salt for the paths. Needing to go somewhere that isn’t somewhere wearing ice grippers – now that’s a problem I recently faced. And I hope not to have to face it again for a good few winters.
   It is Scotland, and all the weather is mild weather. Except that this is Scotland. And so all the weather is all the weather in one day. Be prepared for change. This is the life of a carer. Flexibility is the order of the day and the state of the night.
   Flexibly, I was interrupted by an Amazon delivery destined for another day. Amazon let me down, and refused to update the delivery date – even though I specifically refreshed it an hour before the delivery happened.
   Deliveries are arranged around visits. As soon as the dental check revealed I didn’t need to come back soon, I put in Amazon orders. More supplies, replacing equipment that wore out. Or spares in case the equipment falls apart any day now.
   I have new blades for the blender. As soon as the pharmacy delivery during the week, I’ll have new sachets of powder to add to the milk in the blender. Spare side panels for the bed arrived, too. The ones in place are taking a beating and I expect I’ll resort to the new spares shortly.
  Annoyingly, one spare side panel arrived in bits and had to be assembled. I think the company realises the difficulty. The other spare arrived fully built. I was surprise at that, but took the minor win. The minor loss of wrestling the other one in place awaits my return to the kitchen. I was interrupted typing here to take in parcels.
   Then I was interrupted (ripping up cardboard boxes for recycling) by the carers. And I continued the interruption of my typing by finishing listening to the last two tracks of an album that was yet another interruption from what feels like a decade ago. I refused to type until I’d had supper.
   Now, as I ponder maintenance at the computer, away from the computer indoors, and very much away from the computer in the vast wilds of the garden, I know I must return to setting up that spare side panel. I’ll no doubt discover more winter maintenance to be getting on with as I return to the kitchen.
   The important thing about putting out bins in the winter is to hold your breath and dance through the cold glass raindrops that are booked solid through until March.
   Rebelliously, I had Spring Vegetable soup the other day. Soon it was back to wintry supplies, to see me through the dim-lit day.