DEMENTIA CARE: THE YEAR OF THREE SEPTEMBERS.

Basically, I’m just going to repeat things I said in my last blog post. But the political landscape has changed, so there’s a keener edge to proceedings.
   Colder weather. This started in June-tember. July wasn’t much better. Then August decided to be mid-September very early. The gloom we associate with late September turned up during a very non-summery August shower of rain. It triggered the streetlights and sunset came early. I expect that drama in November, frankly.
   What to do? I had to pull heavy blankets out of storage. Some nights were cool bordering on chill. That absurd thermometer gun is your friend. I’d bought it to check on spikes of temperature indicating a fever. But it will let you know that the reading is slipping a little too far in the other direction. Take action. But don’t turn the heating on.
   The T-shirts I’d bought for summer went unused, day by day, as loose jumpers I’d bought in…ahead of autumn…proved handier. You answer the problem of elderly people feeling the cold more keenly with the power of layers. Heavier blankets. The throw. And whatever you call those walking blankets with unnecessary hoods. They go by many names. Warmer jumpers. Woollier socks. Other measures that don’t involve heating the house. Hot water bottles, on rare occasions.
   I’m glad the rule of elderly care is that we don’t heat the house until October. If I’d chosen September as the vital month, that month would’ve hit us way back in early June. The care team brings me the news of being in other houses where the house is running full heat on mild days. And the carers swelter in the foggy atmosphere, as do their charges.
   Not here. I try to keep the place cool with industrial strength fans when the heat is trapped by a heavy cloud layer. And if the weather turns chill, it’s time for a heavy clothing layer. These are points I’ve made before.
   And I’ll make them again. But I feel them more keenly with the news that the financial support for winter fuel costs is up in the air. The Scottish Government is implementing a change that’ll take effect next year, presumably to soften the blow falling from the Westminster axe, so we should be covered for now as everyone muddles around.
   Even if we aren’t covered, the house hasn’t been heated all “summer” so the usual winter war-chest has been building slowly and steadily. I’d also cut back on gas cooking. Changing tastes in food. Just in a mood for a hell of a lot of salads. That’s what you eat in “summer” weather.
   As autumn comes in (for the second or third time this year), I turn my attention to canned goods that’ll see me through the Twilight of the Gods in bleaker times. I’ll buy in heavier items as the nights lengthen. Cans of stew, to go with roast tatties or chips. My own personal winter fuel. Stock up to avoid the rush and don’t cause a rush when doing so. Cans last a long time, but do remember to cycle through them. If canned soup rattles, you know not to open it.
   Only now am I close to polishing off the tomato soup mountain I created for summer use. There were super-cheap deals for buying in bulk. No, I don’t eat tomato soup five days a week. That’s where the mountain came in.
   Speaking of soup…
   I’ll fire up the soup-maker as well as having cans in place. Autumn spices. Chunky vegetables. Maybe half a crusty loaf to soak it all up in. Soup is nothing without pepper. Morale is vital when you are a carer, and treating yourself to a meal does not automatically mean cakes.
   Unless, to you, treating yourself to a meal does automatically mean cakes. This is fine.
   Heating a can is cooking…but only barely. Making soup from scratch is cooking. I find it fun, and engaging, and it makes you feel less like a carer.
   Always one eye on food. As far as the cared-for is concerned, that food is a batch of dietary supplements to go with strawberry milk. And I have a complaint. Strawberry milk cartons have been redesigned.
   They now have a concealed grenade pin built into them. This thing is made of plastic pretending to be razorwire. I open it with a toothbrush or a spoon. You can’t risk your fingers and thumbs on that awkward guillotine.
   I am attacked on all fronts by major and minor maintenance issues. For a start, the supermarket only had one carton of strawberry milk in stock. There I go again, falling back on the bottled reserve. It’s 2024: a particularly pink vintage.
   Yes, I complain about having to use the reserve supplies. But at least I have reserve supplies. I don’t want to have to make a supply-run in person if there’s nothing left in the fridge. Let’s keep Covid at bay.
   Things seem harsher to deal with as the days shorten. The days and nights are more atmospheric, true. Even putting the bins out seems more hazardous, though. That’s without frost.
   The main risk I face is a Covid-carrier sneezing and leaving a cloud of droplets in still air at the bottom of the garden seconds before I arrive, unaware of the detonation. I have a temperature gun to keep an eye out for feverish numbers. But I can’t have an actual gun to shoot at zombies. There’d need to be zombies, for that.
   Life zips along. I empty the bins. My cardboard mountain eventually fell to nothing. There’s more rubbish to get rid of. Furniture to recycle. And items to just plain dump. Legally, of course.
   I type this as a chill circles around my knees. All the rain fell today, and I attacked maintenance in the garden under the steel protection of a sturdy fleece jacket that sent raindrops scattering to the margins of the world.
   At least the armour works.
   Tested and approved.
   For the first time at this end of the year, I unveiled the duvet. Houses that are built for cold weather with the heating on…aren’t great when the cool touch of September sneaks in. How cold does a house become on a chill day when you refuse to use the heating? Cold enough for carers to remark on the subject when they walk in.
   They are used to warm houses all the year round. For the elderly will ignore advice about layers and just blaze away. There’s sound advice for saving money in the run-up to autumn. Don’t heat the house in the run-up to autumn.
   Hence layers, throws, using the temperature gun to check things in the other direction, and care staff who come in and declare that it’s cold in here – and, though I am a carer, I don’t care what they say. It isn’t October yet.
   Yes. It is cold in here. But not frosty. So. No risk to the pipes, just now. And sometimes October hops in with a laugh on its face and an autumn hat set at a jaunty angle. Mild October days are beautiful. And beautifully unheated until severe nights descend.
   There comes a time when you have to crank the heating up. After months of disuse, yes, you hope it still works. Of course it still works. The same system handles hot water, and there’s still hot water.
   At first there’ll be that dusty smell from heating the dormant radiators. Then there are adjustments to be made, room by room. And you hope there isn’t a shock to the system, bringing the radiators tumbling down.
   But you’ll be okay.
   October is chilly. Mild. There are blankets and throws and coats if you really have to. Support for winter fuel costs. Well, this time around that is an unknown factor. There’s still the Warm Home Discount, even though that is a bit of a faff.
   The chill seeps around my legs a little more keenly as I type my way to the end of this. Strange to think that I was in the garden a short time ago, under a golden burst of sunlight provided by an all-too-brief gap in the clouds.
   There are still flowers in the garden, hunting daylight. I trimmed back the jungle for what may be the last time this year. Carers and parcel delivery people need to be able to reach the door. It’s a legal requirement. I also get all of my food that way.
   Yet here I am, one drink later, sensing the iciness of the frozen wastes at my ankles. I had the choice of a salad or a hot meal, and chose warmth. Now I reach for a new throw. A lot of old blankets went…
   And much better ones came into the house. It’s not over yet. I may buy in some more. When you are too warm, it is hard to cool down. But when you are too cold, you can always throw another blanket on the pile.
   If you don’t see me again, I’ve disappeared under a mound of blankety-throw inventions. No bears were killed in the making of those.