Where Am I?

It seems like only yesterday, that I was fighting valiantly against the dark forces of bureaucracy in the crumbling NHS. I now see that the smouldering remnants are again in the news, as yet another flanking tower finally gives up the ghost, under massive trebuchet assault from the Black Knight, JC, and his heathen hoards.

To briefly recap, my father was in hospital, my mother confused and at home. I was attempting to negotiate a hospital release, via various sub-contracted trusts and other amorphous NHS parasites. 

Well, things have moved on a pace, as is almost inevitable once one's parents have entered their ninth decade. From sheltered apartment to care home, and on to yet another care home. Dad, now more often asleep than awake, more often asleep than eating, more often asleep than any of the alternatives, has a mind that is still two home-moves in arrears. During his more lucid flirtings with the real world the most often uttered statement is, "I wish I was dead!" Of course, I paraphrase, but the sentiment remains the same, clear and unambiguous. He doesn't eat, he doesn't read, he doesn't watch TV, he doesn't partake of conversations. The list of what he doesn't do is considerable; the list of what he does do is short and mostly confined to things he wished he didn't. 

Thank you to Big Grey Mare

If I were my own father I'd want to opt out too. Indeed the only significant thing that he does continue to do is to pay handsomely for the cost of his care, as organised, in part, by myself. 

He's well beyond that dodgy, intermediate stage, whereby he might be considered clear-headed enough or indeed well enough to have opted to travel abroad and to sup of that final glass of rosy red wine. Now that he's unable to partake of more than the briefest of coherent exchanges, I'd certainly not be prepared to make such a final decision on his behalf; even less so would my brother. Dad's very much in the in-need-of-protection-from-unscrupulous-interests camp, the one against which 'our' government keeps warning us. Although my contention is that these, 'unscrupulous interests,' are to be found more so in a rather different guise to those cited by 'our' government.

Were my father's mind more his own, and were it less enshrouded in bigoted Tory values, as spoon-fed over decades, through the likes of the Daily Mail and the Telegraph, he might once, in another and parallel existence, have joined the likes of Paul Lamb, Jane Nicklinson and Martin- Jane, still battling on behalf of her deceased husband- in their fight for the right to die with dignity. In reality this was never going to be the case, having long-since been brain-washed to react knee-jerkily towards anything that might, in any shape or form, be regarded (by the Daily Mail, my parents' Guru) as left of centre. 

So now, in remarkably swift time, Dad finds himself in the perhaps-drawn-out twilight of his days, rarely more than fleetingly concerned with the wider world. Is he deserving of protection from unscrupulous or malicious interests? Certainly! Would he want this protection to extend his life much beyond where he is now? Almost certainly not! But, in so far as making that ultimately-final decision is concerned, that ship has long since sailed.

Thank you also to massdistraction

JC and his spawn pretend concern for my father and his ilk; these players have mastered the dark arts of disingenuous argument, insisting clarity where none exists, 'protecting' the vulnerable elderly from unscrupulous interests? JC is currently also legislating to 'protect' some of our vulnerable-elderly yet further, by ensuring that the cost of care might be capped at £75,000. "So that the elderly might be more able to hand, 'a little something,' on to their younger families," I think one of 'our' politicians recently clarified. 

Seventy-five thousand? Well, call me 'a silly old doubting Thomas,' but that's gonna be pretty much it, for many working individuals, I'd have thought. The single family home might be in serious jeopardy! That is unless you've acquired a whole portfolio of properties, in which case you've almost certainly also amassed a small fortune in shares and the likes. And, at this juncture, the finer machinations of JC's devious little mind and bigoted blackened soul become crystal clear. He's not protecting your money, you fools, he's looking after his own kind. By God, search the blighter and he's probably got the best part of seventy-five grand in loose change! 

An approximation of what's actually going on between those pixie ears might be something along the lines of, "Snuffle, snuffle... bloody peasants! Bugger, how can I con those oiks out of a bit more? Snuffle, snuffle... grab that, have that too! Festering plebs! Mine, mine, mine, mine... soon will be mine... Grr, snuffle, snuffle... Money makes my world go around, my world go around, my, my, my... mine! Hunt, it's bloody Hunt, you stupid bounders! Snuffle, snuffle, grrr, grr... I'll have that, and those, and these, and... Collapsing, what's bloody collapsing? Let them eat cake, but not the dashed Battenburg; crusts, let them eat crusts... Champers, where's the confounded champers? Here, my preciousssss... *

Argentem

As ever, carefully tended behind the small lies, the whopping great monster lies are bursting into bloom, in those Parliamentary allotments, a veritable riot of colours, I'll bet. And, in amongst the 'Best in Bloom,' flourishes the government's 'concern' for the elderly. 

By jove, what could possibly be hatching in their blackened little minds, when they speak so pseudo-passionately of, "The sanctity of life"?

It's those government claws and their puppeteers from which the vulnerable elderly most need protection.

* Obviously I haven't actually seen inside JC's head. I have it on good authority that such a darkness will drive a normal human mind insane.