From yesterday. Bit-post. Unfinished through lack of words:

LB attacked a staff member at dinner time tonight. Unexpectedly. For no apparent reason. After some careful but excessive sauce action (tomato and brown) on his plate. This lead to restraint, more restraint and medication. The situation was explained to me carefully in detail when I turned up an hour or so later. 

“Er, can you claim for your shirt?” I asked his key nurse, inanely, after my other questions were answered (but left unanswered because there aren’t answers). 

There are also no words really to make any sense of this, without falling back on jargon and social care speak. 

I saw LB briefly after the debrief (and ripped shirt). He was in his room. I was armed with an alarm. He didn’t say much, just muttered really. I rang later that evening to see how he was, and the support worker (love her) went upstairs to check on him.

“LB, your mum’s on the phone. She just wants to know that you’re ok.”
“Yes.”
“Can I get you a drink or anything?”
“Yes.”
“What would you like?”
“Blackcurrant.”