Jesus, they run you ragged, old people. So demanding, Special, expensive food and often. Medications for this, that and the other and none of them are cheap. Incontinent, flatulent and grumbling. If looks could kill: I don't want that there, I want it over here. Help me to the settee. Help me down from the settee. Never a minute to myself. (Thinks: once upon a time, you could get up and down quicker than me) I need to go to the toilet, take me, please.
And then there's taking him out in the car. He used to love it but he's not so keen, now, may as well not bother but I just like to get him out of the house and up to the town, meet some people his own age, maybe, have a chat, stimulation, you know. We have driven the length of the Kingdom a score of times, just him and me and he's kept me company but now it's just an imposition on him and even with the roof down on the car, something he used to love, he'd still rather be asleep. These old blokes, they are a handful. He still enjoys his life but sometimes, when he wakes up, it seems he doesn't know who he is, or anything really, and so I have to hold him tight and say lots of familiar words and phrases, until he's logged-on to himself again.
It's better now that it's summer, he's always loved gardening and now he still manages to dig a hole or two, alongside me, as I'm planting the spuds. So I know he's still in there and we just have to recognise that age limits him a bit, he's ninety-five, after all. He did his cruciate ligament a while back but that's mostly healed up, he doesn't have all his teeth, but who does at that age, and he takes heart medication, His doctor says he's the best ninety-five year old she's ever seen and so, after his last check-up, we gave him a bit of a makeover, a trim; have to make sure he has thick pyjamas at night because it's still a bit chilly up here, Lord, when the Sun go down. Here's his new look: