“And LB, make sure you say ‘Hello’ before you ask grandma for your bus magazine. Ok?”
“Yes.”
…
“Hello LB.”
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“Hello.”
“Did you enjoy the bus museum?”
“Hello.”
“Would you like a drink?”
Where’s my bus magazine?”
Back from work this evening to find Will here. Fab surprise. He drove me [????] round to see LB. Yes. He drove me round to see LB.
We found LB in the living room with his DVD playing on the big screen. Everyone sat around, chatting a bit. Watching the film. Hot Fuzz. Peaceful times.
LB didn’t really say much but Will caught his attention a few times – with mention of Chunky Stan and his work trip to Somerset tomorrow. And Eddie Stobart of course.
50 days later.
We went to visit this evening, a bit concerned as LB had been sleeping all afternoon. He’d been sleeping yesterday when Rosie and I visited and was sluggish for a bit while we were there. A change in medication was agreed at yesterday’s weekly team meeting. Concern tentacles appearing a go-go.
He was in bed but woke up like a chill pill when we pitched up. Rich gave him photos off the Fagan and Whalley website (a new competitor on the heavy haulage company front) and we hung out, chewing the fat about Dappy’s recent altercation in a Hereford nightspot, Maggie T’s death and adding photos of Chunky Stan looking out the window on a holiday to Devon, to the growing gallery on his wall. We had a chuckle.
When it was time to leave, LB took us downstairs to see us out. No staff were around but there were tasty cooking smells.
“You’d better find someone to let us out,” we said.
“SECURITY!” called LB cheerfully wandering off down the corridor. He reappeared alone.
“Ha, looks like we’ll have to stay the night. That’ll be a laugh.”
“No no no!” said LB, with a sudden determination. “J! J! Where are you J!!?”
Cheerful times. In an uncertain space.
Got on the bus this morning with a £20 note. And no change. Not a good move.
The driver shook his head. “No change.”
“Arghhhh.. sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller.”
“No change,” he said, poking at his change drawer.
The guy behind me was jingling some coins.
“Can I get the change in town, when you’ve taken some cash?”
“Doubt it. I’ve got no change so far. The best I can do is a change receipt.”
“Ooh, Ok.. What do I do with that?”
“Take it to our depot in Outer Mongolia.” (teeny bit of embellishment there..)
“Isn’t there somewhere a bit closer to do that?”
“Gloucester Green.”
“Oh, Ok. I’ll do that. But if you’ve got the change when I get off, can I cash it in with you?”
“No. I wouldn’t have any cash left if I did that.”
“Well you ain’t got any now..”
Shrug.
“Ok, I’ll take the receipt. Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes I looked up from Candy Crush. The bus had stopped, not at a bus stop.
Eh? I looked out the window. Where are we? Dunno, but everyone was piling off the bus. Speaking to the driver in turn.
“What’s going on?” I asked when it was my turn.
“Detour. High Street’s shut. The Queen’s coming.”
Strange times.
Yesterday, I raged enough at the emergency social care guy to get the duty psychiatrist to call me. This is the learning disability team psychiatrist. We had an astonishing exchange that went on for nearly 20 minutes. He kept insisting that, if anything happened this weekend, we had to call the out of hours GP who would give us a prescription for LB. He would email the other psych, who had discharged him, and tell her what had happened for Monday. I tried to explain that when LB goes off on one, he goes off on one and there ain’t really a convenient space to call the GP, collect a prescription and find a nearby chemist. He didn’t get it. LB ain’t his patient. He ain’t seen him. He can’t do anything else.
Blimey, that don’t matter. Dr Crapshite only saw him once before discharging him so no big relationship there.
No dice. He just kept repeating the out of duty GP path. It could almost have been a recorded message.
I don’t get how he can be a specialist in learning disability and have no understanding of what I was describing. I also don’t understand what the point of a duty psychiatrist is if they ‘can’t’ do anything. Stupid, meaningless layers of process that just mean ultimately, nothing happens. Eventually he asked me if LB had got worse recently. “HE PUNCHED HIS TEACHER IN THE FACE THIS MORNING!” I exploded. “Oh, has he not done that before?” I hung up.
The phone rang straightaway. He’d leave a prescription for lorazepam at our surgery.
“Thank you,” I said.
11.06pm. Wednesday night.
“Mum? Mum?!!! Where’s my Hornby book Mum?!!!”
“Er, which book?”
“The Hornby book Mum. About trains Mum.”
“Mmm. Dunno. Do you need it now? It’s getting late.”
“Yes, Mum. Where is it Mum?”
“I dunno. I’ll come and have a look in your room.”
“Yes Mum.”
… “Mmm. Can’t see it. How about Horrible Histories?”
“No Mum.”
“Victorian London?”
“No Mum.”
“Eddie Stobart: the Story?”
“Maybe Mum.”
“Ok. I’ll start a maybe pile. How about Cars: The Cowley Story?”
“Maybe Mum.”
“Alex Rider graphic novel?”
“Maybe not Mum.”
“Bus magazine?”
“No Mum.”
“The Oxford Bus Museum booklet?”
“Maybe Mum.”
[…..]
“Well there’s quite a few books in the maybe pile now. Which one do you want to read?”
“The Hornby book Mum.”
“Mum. I’ve got a dodgy stomach Mum.”
“You’re going to school LB.”
“Dodgy stomach Mum.”
“School LB.”
“I don’t like you Mum.”
“Eh? How can you say that? I grew you.”
“No you didn’t Mum.”
“Where did you come from then.”
[points to the dishwasher] “There Mum.”
Eek. Determined to take photos today for the first time since the masterclass. A few sneaky numbers on the walk from the bus to the office. And then home again. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Get close. Shoot and deal with fall out after. Breathe….
“Must admit, I’m not a great dog lover, me. And you get them…they kind of come up to me and sniff me knees. You know what I mean? They sniff me knees, but once one dog’s sniffed me knees, other dogs can smell that dog on my overalls and they all want to sniff me knees. I got a cat at home. That probably doesn’t help either, as the dogs can probably smell the cat too. So I tend to shoo em away, like. You know, shake me legs a bit. But one man got a bit uppity when I did that. He was like “My dog wouldn’t hurt anyone!”, but these days, you don’t really know that. A lot of dogs that shouldn’t hurt people do hurt them. So I try to keep away from them… Yeah.. Just the one sugar thank you.”
“Come on everyone! Time to decorate the tree…!!”
“SHUT UP!!”
“Eh? LB come and decorate the tree NOW.”
“Mum. Can I go back on Youtube after Mum?”
“Yep…”
“I don’t think it’s straight. Is it straight?”
“It’s straight…”
“I think it’s leaning to one side. Look…”
“It’s straight...”
“Rosie could always go upstairs and get her protractor…”
“Mum you don’t know what a protractor is, do you.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’m going to look for the baby Jesus in the walnut. The one I made at nursery.”
“Watch that angel, the head fell off remember…”
“I’m going to put this one round here on this branch…”
“Grrrrr… I’d forgotten how much Tom talks…”
“And this one can go here…”
“Tom you don’t.need.to.narrate.your.life.”
“LB put the bubble wrap down and get some decs on the tree.”
“Yes Muvvar.”
“Hey! I found the walnut!!!…Oh wait. It’s awful.
“Hahaha!!!”
“I remember it being much better than that. I thought it had a proper face and everything. Look it’s just got two dots for eyes…Felt tip dots??”
“HAHAHAHA!!! It’s really rubbish!!!”
“DON’T PISS AROUND WITH THE TREE!!!”
“Hahahahahahahaha!!!”
“I’d forgotten how stressful decorating the tree is.”
“I still don’t think it’s straight.”
mydaftlife 