I drove to Peakville, planning to stay for a few days.
At Bert’s there was no sign of Tall Woman. I noticed that the tattooing on Short Woman’s hand is more complicated than I had realised.
The Old Man was in the lounge at Eastwood Priory. One of the carers — was it the Little Grey Woman? — recommended that I should urge him to eat and drink more, “using stronger language than we’re allowed to.” I took him to his room, in a wheelchair. He managed to sign half of the Christmas cards that I wanted him to, but he could manage only the initial letter of his first name.
“How is BLEKE?” he asked me.
“I’m BLEKE,” I reminded him.
He put on an expression of annoyance with himself, but said nothing.
[Original posting 11 December 2011]