Warning!

INTERESTING to see that this blog has been rated as having adult content on a website called pressabout.us
I suppose writing about the Fens, animals and Alzheimer's constitutes pretty racy stuff in some parts.

Know your onions

LIGHT BULBS: Row upon row of onions are left to dry in the early Autumn sun in the heart of the Fens 

THE SMELL of raw onions is common in these parts - among other scents - and this picture taken on the outskirts of our village a week ago goes some way to explaining why. You can see hundreds of acres of them, all laid out in neat lines after being unearthed. They have since been collected and on almost every sharp bend in the area you can now find the odd onion which has fallen off loaded trailers and onto the road. It may come as no surprise to learn that there is also a huge onion cleaning and packaging plant at nearby Chatteris. 
The farmers are now turning their attention to sugar beet and potatoes. 
But that's shallot for now ...

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Deere, deer! It's been so busy in the Fens' fields of gold

HINDSIGHT: A deer, not a John Deere, roaming about,
and below, an expensive combine causes a bit of a storm

HARVEST time is almost over. The annual agricultural round-the-clock madness is coming to an end.
Spotlights sending out searing beams that cut into the night have been switched off and the sound of heavy machinery has finally subsided.
The expansive fields of the Fens have been full of tractors, trailers and combine harvesters. We have seen machinery in different shapes, sizes and ages working at full pelt, day and night, to bring in the crops.
Fortunately, the weather has been kind to the farmers this summer except for a few days a week or so ago when we had storms and heavy rain. But generally, we have been blessed with a great summer.
The landscape has now taken on a golden hue and we are surrounded by fields of stubble littered with bales, both round and rectangular, waiting to be taken in and stacked.
It was fortunate that we had a camera a few days ago to catch a solitary deer roaming about in one such field early in the afternoon on the outskirts of our village. It was curious when we stopped our car and it stood for a few moments, staring directly at us, but then opted for caution and cantered off (top right) towards the safety of a concealed drainage ditch running along the edge of the field. Does a deer canter?
It was a wonderful and unexpected sight.

DEER-LIGHTFUL: Click on the photo
to get a closer look 

I have enclosed a selection of photos to illustrate how busy it gets at this time of year but please make sure you take a peek at the old combine harvester below. The woman driving the red Massey Ferguson is a local farmer, mum and housewife who never seems to stop working. She can be seen in the fields at all times of year, and in all types of weather, doing the work of a dozen people. She really sums up the spirit of this region. Farming may have its rewards, but it is not an easy job.

BALE-OUT: Old-fashioned tractor, old-fashioned  square 
bales.  Personal tip. The twine cuts your fingers if you don't 
wear gloves when hay-making, as I found out as a teenager   

GOGGLE-EYED: The woman driver of this old combine
is wearing goggles. No luxurious cabin for this lady

 NB: Please remember that by clicking on any adverts that may appear you are helping to make a valuable contribution towards Alzheimer's research (see previous posts). So get clicking folks ...

TWILIGHT ZONE: The light was fading when I took this
picture of a combine working next to an onion field

ROAD BLOCK: It's easy to get stuck behind a tractor

GARDEN DELIGHT: Hard at work in a field by our house

Eat your heart out, Nigella! This is really tasty

TASTY: Nigella at a book-signing
Wikipedia

MARY Berry, Paul Hollywood, Nigella Lawson ... eat your hearts out. My missus would win the Great British Bake-off hands down every time, as far as I am concerned. In fact, not just me. My work colleagues think her light Victoria Sponge and luscious Lemon Drizzle have made her worthy of the title, Queen of Cakes (Saturdays).
 This weekend, the boys and girls in London had to go without. Ah, how sad. My wife decided not to give away her delicious cake to the hungry rabble at my office.
 Instead, she turned her attention to muffins with various sweet-tasting centres cleverly inserted. And all in a good cause. She and several friends sold their home-made goodies to raise money for the Addenbrookes Oncology Unit in Cambridge because one of her colleagues mum's has recently been diagnosed with the dreaded Big C. This was a way of raising awareness and valuable funds. The cakes, as you would expect, all went down a treat. And you can see exactly why. Now, where did she put that cake tin? I'm feeling ever so slightly peckish. Can't think why.
PS: The event raised more than £300.
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Dove survives after Sweep's clean swoop!

WHAT DID I DO WRONG? Sweep puts on the angelic face.
 This photo was taken some time ago, but he hasn't changed!

SWEEP, our speedy Spaniel, swept up on a slouch of a collared dove strutting about on the lawn early in the morning just as I was about to let the animals out and give them breakfast. The feathers were flying ... but not the bird. Fortunately, the Sweepster responded to anxious shouts from me and my wife and immediately dropped the dove. The true instincts of a gun dog.
Battered, dazed and probably in a state of shock, the bird hardly moved until I carefully picked it up, relieved that it was still alive. The bird soon stopped flapping and calmed down so I took it down the garden and placed it on the ground in a paddock next to a fence in the early morning sun.
When I carried my afternoon check on the menagerie I decided to see if our friend had survived. He was sitting on the fence, rather than on the ground, recognisable because he was minus a quite few tail feathers. Yet as I approached he deftly flew up to an overhead wire, showing no signs of his earlier encounter. These doves are a common sight, particularly in this part of the world, and make their nests in the strangest of places, and do not show the same fear of humans seen in other birds. And they certainly seem very hardy, especially in this lucky blighter's case. Strange to think, then, that before the 1950s they did not even breed in Britain.

COLLARED: A bird such as one of these was caught by Sweep. They are a very common sight ... even with a lively Sweep on the prowl                        Wikipedia

PS: The rain brings about some strange sights in the ornithological world. A group of wood pigeons were sitting on one of our fences, all lifting one wing up in the air so that the angled rain could get get to their bodies, presumably so they could have a bit of a freshen-up. Make sure you wash your armpits! Weird sight. Unfortunately, I didn't have a camera.

Hot potatoes...seen anyone with a chip on their shoulder?

KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED: Missing potatoes Wikipedia

POLICE are urging people to keep their eyes peeled for cheeky green-fingered thieves who stole one-and-half-tonnes of potatoes from a field near Basin Road in the village of Outwell - a few miles from us just over the county border in Norfolk.
Hundred of spuds were dug up from the same area only three weeks ago under cover of darkness but it is not clear if the two crimes are linked. Such dastardly deeds.
There are no description of the villains, who are unlikely to be couch potatoes, but we should presumably be looking for people with chips on their shoulders. Could they be golfers with that sort of handicap. Chip and run, perhaps? This sort of crime is quite common in the Fens, folks. Bring back the Peelers ...http://www.learnhistory.org.uk/cpp/met.htm

ALEXANDER the GREAT

BBC

PS: So the royal baby will be known as George Alexander Louis. Congratulations to William and Kate. A future king is born. How appropriate then, that another great Alexander - James Alexander Gordon (right) - the king of football results, should announce his retirement from the BBC at the age of 77. Those of us interested in sport grew up with him as he gave us the news about our favourite team every Saturday in that posh Scottish accent. He had one of the most recognisable voices in broadcasting and read the classifieds for 40 years. Sadly, JAG recently had surgery to remove his larynx after being diagnosed with cancer and his voice is no longer strong enough to broadcast. 
Mark Pougatch, multi-talented presenter of Radio 5 Live Sport, summed it up for all  fans when he said: 'Such was his unique style of reading the classifieds, his wonderful inflections and stresses, that even non-believers of sport knew the result after the home team's score.
'Nobody else will be able to say "Wolverhampton Wanderers" with such mellifluous tones.'  


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T&Q stay so cool at fiery Fenland HQ

WHAT'S UP, DUCK? T&Q are playing it cool in the heat

HOT OFF THE PRESS:
Why do ducks watch the news?
To see the feather forecast!

REMEMBER those cute little yellow things who/which hatched almost four weeks ago (see previous posts) at Fenland HQ? Tich and Quackers have grown slightly, wouldn't you agree? They now overshadow mum when they stand tall, they are very inquisitive, they eat exceedingly well and are quite noisy in a whistly sort of way. In fact, they are bordering on being mini hooligans, albeit tame 'uns.
As soon as we put food out, they appear out of nowhere, rocking from side to side like a couple of Keystone Cops. They don't corner that well but they most definitely eat for Britain.
We bought yet another coop last week because they were growing so quickly it was apparent there soon wouldn't be enough room for ducklings and surrogate mum - the black Pekin called Rosemary. Fortunately, all have settled well in their new abode.
Furthermore, they share a pen with the other two bantams and all get on famously. The feathers are not flying.
Maternal Rosemary initially stepped in aggressively if the others seemed to be getting too close to her babies, but she quickly realised they were not a threat to T&Q so she dropped the rolling pin, took off the boxing gloves and the status quo was restored.
The heatwave - talk about extremes - doesn't seem to bother T&Q too much. They are taking everything in their clumsy stride and either drink from or stand in the trays and containers of water in their compound. The Met Office continue to issue obvious warnings about the hot weather while the rest of us swelter, but T&Q remain cool dudes throughout it all. It seems nothing can ruffle their feathers (which are just beginning to appear).

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PUT IT ON THE BILL: The gang inspect the newly-purchased
 home (top); Rosemary and her babies stay in the shade

Stalag-tight security for T&Q

THERE seems to be growing concern about the safety of our ducklings, Tich and Quackers (aka T&Q).

A good friend wrote: "My mother wants to know what happens to Tich and Quackers at night and where does mother sleep? Will a fox eat their mother, turning T&Q into orphans?"

EAT UP: My wife tries to coax Rosemary to eat; one duckling is under her body, the other is not so camera-shy

STALAG TIGHT: High security keeps the foxes out

VE 'av vays, so rest assured, Mrs S. The ducklings are being well cared for by Rosemary, their surrogate mother. They all sleep together in a small enclosure, within another larger secure compound. There are three layers of wire netting on each side and a layer of strong netting over the top to prevent agile predators getting in (we hope).
At night we put them in a straw-laden wooden box with a removable lid, and the ducklings tend to tuck themselves under Rosemary's wings or under her body when they sleep. In fact, their mum could be described as a cosy 25-tog duvet (no duck down, of course).
I would think it is almost as secure as a Stalag, although there are no guards, with heavy German accents, on the perimeters. We do have powerful security lights and my wife and I are frequent visitors, so I suppose we could be classed as the security even though our German is not too good.
According to the Third Geneva Convention (1929), such camps were only for prisoners of war, not bantams and ducklings, but you get ze picture, ja?

Tich and Quackers leave us shell-shocked

TICH and Quackers, our Indian Runner ducklings, finally made an appearance sometime yesterday afternoon. We're still in shock. Some would say shell-shocked. Aren't they brilliant? More to follow soon.

UPDATE: Tich and Quackers appear to be strong, healthy ducklings who are well cared for by Rosemary. They are inquisitive little characters who eat well, drink plenty and love to splash about in their bowl of water as well as drink from it. They do look comical when preening themselves after a dip but they are much more steady on their feet. They looked like a couple of fluffy drunks staggering about for the first 24 hours or so. Mum watches them constantly, wondering no doubt, about the antics of her babies - and her own identity. Still, she is turning out to be a great parent but we do have concerns because she is eating very little at the moment. Something new to worry about.

Duckling alert! Let the wisequacks begin

SHALL we dispense with the wisequacks from the start? It wasn't quite the quack of dawn, but my wife and I were up very early this morning because are expecting a couple of new additions to the family. Ducklings.

CLICK (or cluck) ON THE PHOTO: Rosemary with her duck eggs

Rosemary, our broody Pekin Bantam, is about to become a surrogate mum to a pair of Indian Runner Ducks after sitting on the eggs for almost a month. The idea was suggested by a neighbour, a.k.a. Greengrass, who told us broody bantams make brilliant mothers. Our three ducks don't seem remotely interested in the eggs they lay so it seemed like a good idea to try for some young 'uns with Rosemary.

We had given up hope with the experiment until yesterday when my wife noticed that cracks were appearing in the egg shells ... and the nerves are now beginning to kick in.

We dashed down again this morning to see if the ducklings had emerged but nothing as yet. The cracks in the eggs are significantly bigger and we can see movement. It's a question of wait and see, I suppose.

STAND-OFF: Sir Francis, our protective drake, can
often be seen chasing away wood pigeons if they
have the audacity to land anywhere near his harem.
This bold intruder decided to sit it out on the fence,
much to Francis's displeasure

Mum and babies will have their own maternity area - we're a little worried that the other bantams might become jealous - so we have made alternative arrangements and they will have their own home and pen, within the main hen section. And if Rosemary rejects the babies then we will use the utility room in our house, which stays very warm because of the central heating boiler.

In the meantime, a few items I found after a brief search on the, err, Web.

'Put it on the bill,' said the duck to the bartender.
Who stole the bathroom soap? The robber duck.
Why do ducks watch the news? For the feather forecast.
Where do ducks go when they are ill? To see the ducktor ... to see the Quack.

No, I can't go on. I'll keep you posted.

Alzheimer's: A Neverending Story (or Hay fever on Fry-day)

SHRINK-WRAPPED: A healthy brain (bottom) is much larger than the brain of a donor with Alzheimer's 
 Wikipedia

'He's there, look. Just under that thing, that window, and look, he's painting. Can't you see him?' she enquired, pointing towards a high brick wall in the side garden. 'He lives there now. He comes to see me every morning, you know, before he goes to work. He says "How are you dear?" and asks me if there's anything I want and then he's off.' 

Another cruel twist of the knife by that arch villain, Alzheimer's. My wife almost winced. It was certainly painful to hear.
My mother-in-law was talking about her husband who died fast-approaching four years ago. And he wasn't even called Lazarus. It was the prelude to a long, meandering but contrived chat that would stop randomly at different points as if signalling different stages in her life, before continuing again, a mishmash of ideas, people and places.
At this point, as the early afternoon sun lit up the large conservatory of the Little Downham care home overlooking fields where well cared-for horses barely moved as they grazed, her thoughts were predominantly about her husband.

BRAINY: Stephen Fry, normally a regular at the Hay Festival, 
does not seem to feature this year
Wikipedia 

The story-telling was effortless but there were sometimes pauses as she struggled to snatch the correct but evasive word, a Potteresque snitch, hovering in the hazy ether. Occasionally her speech was slurred, too, but overall she was holding her audience. Stephen Fry at the Hay Festival (http://www.hayfestival.com) it was not. Not even Bernard Cribbins  presenting Jackanory. But we were intrigued, almost mesmerised by the stuff she was spouting just as we were captivated by those BBC episodes from our childhood. Even the chiropodist working on residents' gnarled old feet at the far side of the sun room was intrigued.
'At least she's talking," she said with a heavy stage whisper. 'You're not wrong there. But it's so sad because everyone she's talking about is dead,' I replied as mother continued to talk to her daughter.
'I thought as much,' replied the seated chiropodist, before looking down attentively at a foot resting on one of her knees. She didn't look up, but continued: 'I used to work as a carer in a home like this and I think that it's more worrying when they just sit there and say nothing ... just staring.'
Another click, another piece of nail from the foot dealt with swiftly as she withdrew what looked like pliers straight from my old (seldom used) tool box. I hate feet. Horrible. She didn't mean to be dispassionate. But I suppose there is a point in our lives as we shuffle to old age when we all become 'they'.

'Did I tell you that Vera called round to see me the other day?' said mum-in-law. 'Yes, she looks well and she's coming to pick me up and we're going to live at home again. In a couple of weeks, I think. You don't have to worry about picking us up, by the way. Vera has her own transport now. My mother doesn't know that we're going home, but we don't want her sticking her oar in. You know what she's like. She'll say this and that, la-la-la, and "no you can't". Typical. Well, that's what Pop always said.' She then laughed. Actually, it was more of a cackle. Scary, very scary.

Vera was her favourite sister, a severely handicapped lady who had no formal education and died many years ago ... in a care home. Their own mother passed way before then. Mum-in-law's beloved Pop died when she was just 16.
The illness is not getting any better ... http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/ http://www.alzheimersresearchuk.org/

PS: Did you see the story about Stephanie Bottril, who committed suicide because of the 'Bedroom Tax'? This government are a bunch of arses who don't have a clue about the life of ordinary people in Britain. It's all well and good making savings, targeting scroungers, going on about the European Union or calling for a referendum because UKIP have them running scared. But what about vulnerable folk who genuinely struggle, who rely on the Welfare State to survive? They do exist, you know, and it is these people who are being punished so that the government PR machine can roll out crap and wrap it all up in a supposed vote-catching benefit-cheats offensive. We all hate scroungers, of course we do. But tackle that problem in a different way, for goodness sake. My mother-in-law talks more sense. 

Dial M ... for Mabel

The scent of death lingers in the Fens. Not quite Vinnie Jones in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, not even John Nettles in Midsomer Murders, but I'll mention anything and anyone to get a half-decent intro and a link to other items further down this post.
First, Martha, then Margaret (Thatcher) and now Mabel. Mmm, very sad. Not so much a case of Dial M for Murder as Dial M for Mabel.
Martha's demise a few weeks ago was a blow, but Mabel's sudden death a few days ago was a genuine shock. Our beautiful Silver Pekin Bantam, a noisy busybody who was first out of the coop every morning, last in at night, and certainly the most friendly of our small group, began slowing down just over a week ago. She stayed inside on a perch, on the sawdust-strewn floor in a corner or in a nesting box; she had to be hand-fed much of the time with sweetcorn (soaked in water for fluid intake) and drank very little. She rallied for a couple of days, making a few appearances outdoors. But then her condition worsened.

OUR FEATHERED FRIEND: Mabel (front) was a lively bird

A visit to the excellent vets on the outskirts of Ely meant she was given a thorough check. What a spectacle: concerned big bloke lifts lid of small cardboard box [ it had contained a recently-purchased iron] pierced with holes, reaches in and tentatively pulls out small bird in front of serious-looking young vet. Bespectacled assistant appears at consulting room window simultaneously, looks curious and bemused. It was all so very surreal.
An antibiotic fluid was prescribed by the young lady who thought our Mabel had perhaps picked up an infection and the drug was administered by placing a miniature syringe in her beak twice a day. All to no avail. She passed away quietly the following day and is now buried alongside Martha.

*We have magpies nesting in trees near our goat shed/stable - there are a large number of birds nesting in the garden this year - and here I have to own up to superstition handed down to me by my mum. I salute magpies whenever I come across them and I am constantly on edge if I see only one. Now that is bad luck. Seeing one can really ruin my day and I'm constantly on the lookout for more of the feisty buggers so that I can salute them and ward off the threat of bad luck. At this point I feel a link coming on: http://www.timelessmyths.co.uk

HELLO MAGPIE: One for sorrow 
Dave-F

In many parts of the United Kingdom spying a single magpie is considered an omen of bad fortune and saluting is a way of showing the proper respect in the hope that the magpie won't pass on some of the misfortune that follows it.

*Vinnie Jones has the same attitude to seeing just one magpie. In his book, Vinnie, the Autobiography,  - now you understand why there's a jacket cover at the top - he describes how he drives through the countryside for miles until he sees another magpie. Yes, it was a free copy I read many years ago, and it was a reasonable read, believe it or not. It was of particular interest to me because I once interviewed him while he was playing for Leeds United under Howard Wilkinson. An intimidating bloke, but a great sense of humour. Vinnie, that is. I reckon you need it at Elland Road, ee bah gum.

*I heard my first cuckoo of the year early on Friday as I was letting out the animals and feeding them. Yes, I did spit and yes, I did make a wish. No, I'm not telling. I want it to come true. Here's another link: http://www.mystical-www.co.uk/ and an extract:

In Wales it is supposed to be unlucky to hear the first call before April 6, and if heard on April 28 the following year will be a prosperous one, while in England it is supposed to be unlucky to hear it when in bed but an omen of good fortune if heard outdoors, especially if you have money in your pocket (as you are never supposed to fall on hard times again) or standing on grass. On hearing the bird the money should be taken out of the pocket and spat on according to old Welsh folklore.

If you are a man, then you should remove a shoe when you hear the call of the cuckoo and look inside. If you find a hair, this will relate to the colour of hair that your future partner will have. If you are a woman, the number of notes made in the bird song will indicate how many years you must wait until you will marry. The same is true for an older person, as the number of cuckoo calls is reputed to indicate the number of years the person has left to live.

How cheery. I didn't remove my shoes because the goats would have had them for breakfast and I had nothing in my pockets - because I'm just a poor man from the Fens. But there is a glimmer of hope because I was standing on grass. Hey things must be looking up.

AND FINALLY

FUR REAL: Ferreting about in the Fens 
Flicktone

Peterborough United were relegated by conceding a goal in the final minute of the final Championship game of the season. Darren Ferguson's men apparently played good, stylish football but a terrible start to their campaign landed them in trouble. Let's hope Posh bounce back again for the sake of this region which is starved of good football. The Fens are not exactly the heartlands of the English national game. When it comes to ferret racing, however, well that's another matter. Game on.

PS: Fanfare. This is the 50th post of Fenland fiddle-faddle. 

Thatcher: A Miner joke turns B Flat

MIXED MEMORIES: Former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher in October 2007 Wikipedia

TWO OF A KIND: Ronald Reagan, who showed signs of Alzheimer's while President of the USA, with his great friend and fan Margaret Thatcher Wikipedia

MARGARET THATCHER DIES - live reaction and updates, according to The Guardian blog today. Notice the wit and irony, eh?

I wasn't a fan but she was certainly a woman who could not be ignored. The flurry of minor/miner jokes are a little too predictable, though, as were puns about strokes and strikes, but I do think the bedroom tax gags were topical and amusing.

Brace yourselves for wall-to-wall coverage about the legendary politician until her funeral at St Paul's Cathedral in London. I won't bore you with my two-penneth worth but Fenland fiddle-faddle is concerned with dementia because of the impact my mother-in-law's illness has had on our family. So here is a statement from Jeremy Hughes, the chief executive of the Alzheimer's Society (http://www.alzheimers.org.uk/):

"It was well known that Baroness Thatcher had dementia during the last years of her life.  Dementia is caused by brain diseases; the most common are Alzheimer’s and vascular dementia. One in three people over 65 will develop dementia but for too long dementia has been kept in the shadows and families have been left to struggle alone.  

"Today, up and down the country people will be sharing memories of Baroness Thatcher. At this time we hope people will also reflect on the impact dementia can have on a person’s life.  By speaking openly about the effects of the condition, we will begin to tackle some of the stigma that still surrounds dementia and ensure that everyone gets the support they deserve."

Stop! Thief! Freeze in Hell ...

PERHAPS it is good that my mother-in-law cannot remember. She celebrated her 85th birthday yesterday at a residential care home targeted by - how should I put this? - complete bastards.
I was so incensed that I put together a few paragraphs for our evening newspaper and Anglia Television:

Heartless thieves hit a new low when they syphoned off hundreds of litres of heating oil at a residential care home to leave a group of vulnerable elderly people at risk as temperatures plummeted below zero.

The cold-hearted criminals drained the half-submerged oil storage tank within the electronically-gated grounds of *** **** at Little Downham on the outskirts of Ely on Wednesday night or the early hours of  Thursday morning and, in doing so, completely shut down the central heating system.

Care staff handed at the 27-bedroomed home handed out blankets and shawls during the day as residents were left without heating for most of Thursday. A plea also went out to relatives for free-standing heaters and radiators but the central heating was restored in the evening following an emergency delivery of oil.

A spokesperson for the home said: “I just can’t believe that someone could do this to old people. Just how low can someone stoop?”  

I visited in the morning to wish my mum-in-law all the best on her 85th big day, to drop off a few goodies and to hand over a couple of birthday cards. She was initially slow to recognise me as she sipped her mug of milky tea and chatted away to her best pal, who is 99. 

"Oh, it's you. You haven't changed at all since I last saw you." That occasion was last week, by the way.

During my stay, a member of staff was handing out shawls in one of the lounges to residents who were feeling cold. It was then that I found out about the shocking theft. It was not noticeably chilly to me but then I am not eighty-plus. No sniggering at the back! I also told mum-in-law that I would be visiting again in the evening with my wife when she had finished work and promised more pressies. Sadly, this information was retained for all of 20 seconds. The same could be said about her birthday. She simply didn't remember, even though various carers were wishing her many happy returns etc, etc. Good old Alzheimer's, eh?

"It's my birthday? Really? I must be about 70 I think."

When her actual age was revealed, she said, simply: "Oh, I wasn't far out then." 

This conversation was repeated several times before I left.

My wife and I went back later as promised and the central heating had just been restarted after an oil delivery, so at least the residents were spared freezing to death. It will come soon enough for many of them, but being helped to your grave because some arse decided to nick the oil is unthinkable.

Mum-in-law was thrilled to see her daughter, as you would expect, and pleased to see me "after such a long time". There was absolutely no recollection of the earlier visit. Still, she was equally delighted with her presents which she unwrapped in the privacy of her room rather than a lounge full of chairs and walking frames. We then sat together round a table in the dining room and chatted away for a good hour. Mum-in-law, who now suffers from incontinence quite badly, struggles even more to find the words she wants to use and has almost no short-term memory, was in high spirits to begin with, but her mood quickly changed.

"I don't like it here. I want to go home," she said.

"They're good to me here, people speak to me, but I don't do anything. And it's not home. I don't want to die here, so how long have I got to stay?" [She lived with us for three and half years but it seems home to her is a pastiche of dwellings, houses in which she has lived and the accompanying memories which are fading fast.] 

I felt so sorry and, if I'm brutally honest, so very uncomfortable. She continued:

"I do have a house, you know. [No she doesn't.] I want to go back there and walk down my garden path. I'm fed up just sitting here doing nothing." [There are organised activities each morning, staff are always talking to residents and there is a constant stream of visitors. But she is right. It isn't home.]

My wife dealt with the situation brilliantly and in a delicate, sympathetic manner. I stayed stum. Not known for my diplomacy and tact, you understand. She changed the subject to her mum's birthday, the cake she had been presented with and her presents. Cliche, I know, but it really was as if a switch had been thrown, the mood changed, her concerns forgotten in an instant and she rediscovered her high spirits. As we left, she resumed her place in the high-back chair next to her pal who was nodding off. A handful of Werthers Originals wrapping papers lay discarded by her side.

The journey home on that freezing March night was marked by feelings of guilt and sadness. Could we have done more to keep her at home with us? Could we have still coped as her condition deteriorated? Was she in the best place? Sadly, the answers are clear. She is being given the expert care and attention we simply cannot provide. Yes, we'll continue to visit as often as possible and to take her out for the odd day trip and for meals, but there's no getting away from the fact that Alzheimer's is such a cruel disease.