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.