Home is where the heart is

In the slow-beating heart of the Cambridgeshire Fens, the cool April night is finally still. No gunshots tonight, thank goodness. A day of sun, showers, strong cold wind and mountains of cloud formations has been and gone. The straight-line drainage ditches are beginning to swell despite East Anglia's official drought, while the Fen Blow has still to whip up treasures of the dark earth managed by farmers like old Despisely [not his real name, you understand, but more of him later].
Furthermore, Martha and the Vandellas are safely tucked away in their coop, while the pygmy goats - Reg, Molly, Ralph, Lily and Rupert - sleep soundly in their stable after another busy day of doing plenty yet bugger all. Hector, the laidback black Labrador, has parked himself on a battered sofa in the kitchen, while Sweep, the mad Cocker Spaniel, has dived into the dog bed, resting for the time being, at least.
Sadly, the mother-in-law is not at peace. She was such a lively woman, active in body and spirit, and to be honest, a bit of a pain. Now she's a very pleasant, dotty old lady... with very little memory or commonsense. Even as I write this, with the midnight hour fast approaching, Lady Gaga can be heard creaking around upstairs, packing her clothes and moving ornaments and books, chuntering to herself as she does so. The nickname is not meant to insult; it is meant to bring a little humour to an otherwise  desperate situation. Poor old girl has Alzheimer's Disease, you see, and tonight the tormented soul has decided to "go home"... again.
The fact that she's lived here with us for more than three years means nothing to her. Experience tells us that her home, for the next few hours, is likely to be a mixture of addresses from her past; the house in Bedfordshire where she was born 84 years ago, where so many of her memories now lie; the 1930s semi where her girls were conceived; or could it be the bungalow in Buckinghamshire, where she and her husband lived in retirement?

At peace: calm waters soothe the Fens

Tonight, home is anywhere but the Fens. She will be in and out of bed, the toilet will be flushed dozens of times [sorry Anglian Water], clothes will be stacked, handbags emptied or stuffed with odds and sods,  and my dear, long-suffering wife will probably speak to her at least three times during the wee hours - incontinence is also big problem for Lady Gaga, not my wife - in an effort to settle the old girl. One thing for certain, there will be little sleep in this house tonight.