I’m staying with Dad while Mum’s in hospital.
Our days start late: breakfast by mid-morning; showered and ready to leave by 11am.
I hear a voice from the lounge:
“Trish? Can you help me with my socks?”
We arrive at the hospital about noon, just in time to critique today’s lunch.
We let Mum rest and head downstairs for a sausage roll.
By the time we’re back in the ward, Dad’s beginning to flag.
“Best make a move. Beat the traffic.”
An hour later, Dad is back in his lounge chair.
We both relax with a cold beer.
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