Mrs CJ phoned me at lunchtime, unsure whether I would be driving back to Suburbia Somnolenta that afternoon. I told her that the “best interests” meeting was scheduled for the Monday. I also told her about my conversation with the Old Man the previous day. She was amused, and pleased that the Old Man could still make dryly humorous comments.
At Eastwood Priory, M was in his armchair, immediately outside the lounge. (There had been no sign of him on Saturday.) He told me that he had been in Eastwood Priory for seven weeks, “the longest seven weeks of my life”.
While the Old Man and I talked, he began to pick at the scab over the skin-tear I had noticed the previous day. I told him not to pick at it, and he stopped. (These days, I find myself giving him too many instructions and orders for my liking.)
[Original posting 10 October 2011]