You just wouldn't believe it...

There is no arguing that my time with PantyHead has resulted in bouts of frenzied comfort eating (cue 4 Kit Kats in one sitting) and uncontrollable expulsions of expletives under my breath (to the point where I wondered if I might have undiagnosed Tourette’s Syndrome). Generally I don’t feel that we are kindred spirits or even of the same planet, but last night I felt terribly sad for her:

We were getting ready for bed (my favourite time of day – sing “ding-dong the witch is in bed”) and the old harridan had removed her panty headwear and was administering a comb-over to what remains of her wispy hair. While staring wistfully into her dressing table mirror she remarked,

“You wouldn’t believe looking at me now that I used to go to all those dances. I had such beautiful clothes from Harrods. You just wouldn’t believe it.”

Looking over her shoulder at this diminutive balding gorgon before me I couldn’t for the life of me picture a young follicular-rich PantyHead, but the terrible pang of her disbelief was tangible if only for that moment; until she turned from her reflection with a sigh and the confidence was broken and we were back to our master servant roles. Still I tucked her up in bed with a little more care than usual (technically I helped her sit in her armchair, remember she sleeps upright – strangely vampiric) and said what my great-grandmother always said to me, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.” PantyHead smiled dumbly back at me.

As I was backing out of the room the Husband phoned. I immediately launched into my sorry tale and we agreed that neither of us could imagine looking at our 90 year old selves in a mirror; marvelling at where the time had gone and at the people we had been.

Frankly, I find it completely petrifying the thought of staring at an old bald ogress in a mirror and realising that she’s me. So today I’m being a little kinder to PantyHead even when she complains that her steak is too tough, the ice-cream has been scooped wrong, the glasses are in the wrong cupboard, this doesn’t look like exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine…

…Oh, sod it I preferred the comfort eating and compulsive utterance of obscenities.

143 grams of Plaice & 5 liquid ounces of White Wine

PantyHead has a cold. The origins of which she immediately traced back to her long-suffering daughter who had stopped by this weekend. I overheard their phone conversation, not because I was eavesdropping (although it is one of my supernatural skills), but because PantyHead has a new auditory-enhancing phone. The new phone is so loud that I have to hold it at arm’s length from my ear, for fear of rupturing my eardrum:

PantyHead: Hello Dear, I’m just phoning to see how your cold is?

Dear: Hello Mother, I don’t have a cold.

PantyHead: Are you sure Dear, because I heard you sneeze 3 times when you were here and now I have a terrible cold, it’s on my chest.

Dear: Mother, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Well, Emma doesn’t have a cold and I heard you sneeze. You must have a cold coming - that’s when they’re at their most infectious.

Dear: MOTHER, I DO NOT HAVE A COLD!

PantyHead: Are you sure dear, you sound rather cross?

Dear: I’m not cross and I do not have a cold.

PantyHead: [Voice growing reedy and thin and raised by 3 octaves] Aren’t you lucky to be so healthy. I feel terrible.

Dear: Mother, I’m very sorry that you have a cold.

Poor Woman (I mean ‘Dear’) can’t even sneeze without sparking accusations of being a disease-harbouring incubus. Of course we had to ring the Doctor posthaste. He nipped round sharpish and despite depressing PantyHead’s tongue whilst shining his torch into various orifices (the plural of which should really be orifi) as well as listening to her chest could find no signs of ill health. He urged her to rest and eat normally.

‘Eat normally’, he said. PantyHead chose to ignore this advice and now demands that I weigh out her food as this will help to stabilise her blood sugar levels. She is quite precise in her demands, requiring exactly 143 grams of plaice and 5 liquid ounces of white wine. When I stupidly questioned why she doesn’t just eat as much plaice as she feels like she lectured me on the sugar to salt ratio differential between plaice and salmon. Apparently she can eat as much salmon as she likes, but plaice is another kettle of fish, as it were. According to the Gospel of PantyHead, the alcohol in her wine is cancelled out if the wine is imbibed with a glass of water. Again for a bit of sport I took her up on this topic, but was told in no uncertain terms that a glass of water, following a glass of wine makes it non-alcoholic. “Of course” she said, “you don’t understand this because you are not a nurse.”

Lucky she doesn’t possess a driving licence or a car – “Well, hello, Mr Orificer, no I’m not ovsher the limit, I’ve only hass jsust 4 glashes of wine, but I hass water whish them so it doeshnt’ count, doesh it?”

Thank Heavens for Girlfriends and Beer!

Isn’t alcohol amazing? I mean obviously it must be treated with respect (as in to avoid alcohol and drug induced lifestyle leading to early death - I’m very sad about Amy Winehouse) but let me explain my case:

Last week PantyHead was getting on my last nerve to such a degree that I feared I was not only losing my sense of humour and humanity but more importantly the will to live. Frankly life with the nonagenarian was pants and I was accepting of my slow decline into torpid oblivion. But then, a wonderful thing happened, I had a day off and it was fabulent (my new favourite made up word, to be uttered in a ‘Yar’ accent).

For 12 happy hours I was no longer 90 years of lingering decrepitude. I was instead a young (I use the word loosely) 28-year-old woman hanging out in London with her girlfriends; Kiki (University Friend, of the hair burning fame) and J9 (School friend, of the Methodist all girls school fame). Now although my friends had never met before we bonded over beer and gossip. And we moaned and bitched and laughed and it was like an episode of Sex in the City (minus the amazing clothes and sex - not saying that we weren’t well dressed and stylish mind you, but as two of our number are married not a lot of sex to speak of). And I was happy to note that we are all suffering from the grass-is-greener syndrome:

Kiki: The commute kills me. I hate driving my car to work everyday.

J9: I’d love to be able to drive to work. I hate the tube, standing with your nose under someone else’s armpit every morning…

Me: Tell me about it. I hate the commute. I go down the stairs and there PantyHead is EVERYDAY!

We whiled away an afternoon sitting cross-legged in a Moroccan themed bar drinking ‘Casablanca’ beer and smoking an apple flavoured shisha pipe (as an aside I don’t smoke, but I do love the occasional cigar or shisha, what will my mother say? Although mother did tell me that only common girls drink beer.)

Sadly all too soon my day was over and I was back at PantyHead’s side staring at her Rod Stewart wig and dodging the spittle flying from her manically moving lips, and instead of feeling a creeping wave of aggravation I felt drunkenly love for the old bat:

PantyHead: Oh, Emma I’m so glad you’re back. You see I ate a piece of bread with marmite – to get my salts up. But then my blood pressure was so high that I ate 6 kit Kats to get my sugar up. And now I feel a little ill.

Me: Really? Wow. That’s quite impressive and I do understand your discomfort. [Genuinely impressed and empathetic as on an afternoon of comfort eating, brought on by the Head of Pant, I ate 4 Kit-Kats and spent rest of afternoon mock-charging.]

PantyHead: But I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing.

Me: [Voice of barstool wisdom] You have to trust your body. You did what you felt was right. That’s what counts. [At this point I may have even patted her wrinkled old knee]

PantyHead: Oh, do you think so. I mean I was so worried…blah, blah, blah…

Me: [Thinking to self: Isn’t she sweet with her crazed chocolate eating. Look at her sitting there with her crazy cat-wig perched at a jaunty angle. I love her. Such a sweetheart. Hang on? [Brief moment of sobriety] did I just say I love her?]

And that is when I discovered that this job is so much easier to do with a feeling of drunken bonhomie. Of course the next morning when I awoke with a low-level hangover and a mild case of the shits courtesy of the Casablanca I wasn’t so endeared…

…But still Thank Heavens for Girlfriends and Beer!

Walked on the Common without a Dog

Today whilst out on my 2-hour break (wandering through an English common – read ‘park’ if you’re South African) I was slightly ahead of two rather posh teenagers (lets call them Tilly and Rufus) out walking a King Charles spaniel. I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation:

Tilly: [With artfully dishevelled expensively highlighted blonde locks, dressed in leggings, oversized check shirt, Ray bans & vintage Chanel chain link handbag] Oh, so tell me have you heard from Yaa-spar? [Jasper to those of us you don’t speak the language of the Chelsea ‘Yar’]

Rufus: [With artfully side-swept fringe, Jack Wills Blazer, brogues (for a walk in the mud?) and Ray ban wayfarers] Yar, he’s looking good. He’s lost a lot of weight since he’s come back from Africa.

Tilly: Oh, really how delightful. Was he in community outreach Africa or Holiday Africa?

Rufus: Oh, no he was on a family holiday in Botswana. A walking Safari I believe. Yaa-spar, claims he nearly died twice – once at the hands of a lion and the other due to a hippopotamus.

Tilly: Oh, gosh how frightfully exciting…

Amazing! I had never heard of my homeland referred to in terms of a social welfare enterprise or a vacation before, but what I was more awed by was the way in which these plumy mouthed youths spoke and it got my thinking about accents. You see I’ve been accused of losing my South African accent and going all posh. It doesn’t really help in Britain where people seem to base their knowledge of South African accents on Leonardo DiCaprio’s turn in Blood Diamond “My blud is in the soyl.” So I’m not too offended that Brits now ask me which part of England I’m from. But I recently bumped into a South African that I hadn’t seen since primary school, aged 11:

[Me breezing out of a Department store in South West London, sent on a geriatric chore so not watching the crowd. Find path blocked by skinny blonde in gigantic sunglasses. Blonde stares intently at me:]

Blondie: [Brow wrinkled in concentration] Jenny?

Me: [Suddenly recognising blonde from pre-pubescent school days] No its…Hello, Robyn, how are you?

Robyn: Ja, well…blah, blah, been in London for 7 years, blah…and you…

Me: Blah…blah…husband, Scotland, in the U.K for 5 years…carer…blah, blah…

Robyn: Shoo-hey, but you’ve blended in well. Hey, you’ve relly lost your aksent?

Me: Yes, I think it’s my line of work annunciating loudly in the elderly ear. If I say yo-gurt instead of yog-hurt, they don’t know what I’m talking about. And if I give directions to turn left at the next robot instead of saying traffic light then it’s all over. And heaven forbid I ask for a plastic bag instead of shopping bag. Have you noticed it’s plaaa-stic, not plas-tic?

Robyn: Ja, No? I suppose so, but it’s still a pity hey?

Is it a pity? Now that I’ve become anglicized my Family and South African friends take great delight in mocking me about my new hot-potato voice. Don’t get me wrong I can still roll my ‘R’s’ and get guttural on my ‘G’s’ with the rest of my countrymen, but maybe having a non-defined universal accent isn’t so bad. The Husband, despite originating from a small group of islands of the North coast of Scotland called the Orkneys, has a regionally neutral accent. But put in him in the company of Orkadian fisherman and the most amazing transformation occurs:

Orkadian fisherman: Wat-like-today-buey? [Translation: how are you today, boy?]

The Husband: Cannae complayn, off-in-twae-dae-on-the-bot. [Can’t complain off in two days on the boat]

Orkadian fisherman: That’ll-keep-ye-awae-fra-the-hoose? [That’ll keep you away from the house?]

The Husband: Aye-fishin-fer-spoots-n-scallops [Aye, fishing for razor clams and scallops (giant clams to the South Africans out there)]


It sounds like complete gibberish to the untrained ear. Everyone seems to talk at 5 times the usual rate in a rather singsong manner. I spent the first 3 months living in Orkney [we lived on an island of 600 people for awhile – a story for later] with my head cocked at a 45-degree angle while I stared intently at their feverishly moving mouths trying to decipher the code.

So all things considered I’m rather glad my husband doesn’t speak Orkadian ‘roond the hoose’ and he still gets a laugh when I tell him to go because the robot is green. We’re probably better off with our ‘of the world’ accents, until I drag him kicking and screaming to South Africa and force him to convert: Now Husband repeat after me, “My blud is in the soyl.” Either that or he has to speak like Sean Connery at all times, because that’s how I thought all Scotsmen spoke, until I got to Scotland and realised that this is ‘not neshasharily’ true. Ja well no fine.

Ape Shit

I have so many hormones coursing around my body! I am premenstrual in a particularly mad bovine manner and not especially nice to be around as a result.

PantyHead and I had, until this point, been getting on quite well together. I had perfected the art of the sweet smile and under-breath mutter in response to her many ludicrous requests. But today with the P.M.S she’s been seriously getting on my metaphorical g-string. I have spent a good portion of the day swearing loudly in a ‘do-you-kiss-your-mother-with-that-mouth’ way at a variety of inanimate objects. I released a string of profanities so unladylike at an aging piece of steak in the freezer that I’m certain it blushed.

It doesn’t help that the Head of Pant has resumed her obsessive blood pressure computations and consequent food Nazism. If I am to fully understand her system, sugar makes her pressure go down and salt makes it go up. So today for every scoop of ice cream consumed she has had to chase it with a spoonful of cold mushroom soup. We must then have long and protracted conversations about what she should eat next:

PantyHead: Oh, Emma, I’m hungry. What can I eat?

Me: What about a slice of toast?

PantyHead: No, toast has salt in it.

Me: Ok, what about a Banana?

PantyHead: What?

Me: BANANA. YELLOW, MONKEYS EAT THEM A BANANA! BANANA! [Use both hands to indicate curved banana shape of approximately 10 cm in length]

PantyHead: Oh, Heavens no! [Look of utter disgust]

Me: [Pondering silently] Eek, she’s misunderstood my hand signals and now thinks I am some sort of sex fiend pervert creating obscene penile gestures.

PantyHead: No, no, no! Bananas have sugar in them!

Me: Oh. [Relief.] WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?

PantyHead: I don’t know...a tomato? No wait, that has sugar. Just pass me a Kit Kat.

PantyHead’s increased appetite has of course given her cause for alarm, as she is sure it indicates a hyperactive thyroid. She was immediately on the blower to the Doctor who was due to come round for some blood tests later today:

PantyHead: Hello Doctor?

Doctor: Hello, 'Mrs PantyHead'. [Obviously he doesn’t call her ‘PantyHead’ he uses her real name and immediately identifies her by the desperate tone of her creaking voice]

PantyHead: Hello, now I know you’re coming round today. What time do you think you’ll be here?

Doctor: I’ll see you at 1pm.

PantyHead: It’s just that I don’t know where I am. I’m just so hungry all of the time and…[Beep. Dial Tone]…and…[Removes from ear and stares at it in amazement] He’s hung up on me. I don’t believe it! [Said in tone of Victor Meldrew*]

That was me tickets. The look of complete stupefaction on PantyHead's face was enough to amuse me all day. Although my sense of humour failed when I stupidly gave myself a tomato-sauce bindi whilst checking if the squeezy ketchup nozzle was blocked. Note to self, this should not be done by staring straight down nozzle and squeezing the bottle hard. You will squirt tomato sauce directly between your eyes and you will look like a twat.

Now, if I can just get through the rest of today. Maybe Men’s synchronised diving will be on again? I caught 10 minutes of it earlier. I think I could quickly become an ardent spectator - am especially keen on the cheeky rear view underwater shots when the competitors have to pull up their water-displaced Speedos very quickly. Oh, dear maybe I am pervert?

*Victor Meldrew, disgruntled Retiree in British sitcom 'One Foot in the Grave'

More WATER!

I think that the Valium is working. Despite an episode of extreme constipation, given rise to concern of a ‘blockage’, PantyHead has been rather, and I have trouble saying the word, nice. We’ve actually conversed. Well, I ask a question and she shouts a long-winded diatribe back at me (and often covers me in spittle). So far we have covered some of her childhood and a time when she was not quite so folicularly (new word) challenged. In fact if she is to be believed she once had a flowing mane of auburn/red/copper infused locks. I am actually starting to feel sad for her that she has to wear the ‘Rod Stewart’ or Panties upon her balding dome.

But so saying there are still things that amaze me about her. As PantyHead was suffering from a bowel impaction I have spent a fair portion of the last few days standing sentinel at the toilet door in case she requires my (unspecified) services. Allow me to recap:

PantyHead: Oooh, Emma help me in there. [Gestures towards toilet door.]

Me: Right. [Put Game Face on.]

[Long walk, all of 10 steps to bathroom. PantyHead clutching on to my right arm, moving at snails pace so as not to ‘dislodge anything.’ Enter bathroom.]

PantyHead: Hold my skirts up. Hold ‘em up, I don’t want them getting wet.

Me: Yes. [Hoiking skirt up around her ears while she settles on John Crapper’s historic invention.]

PantyHead: Ooh, I’m spending quite a big penny. Oh, there’s something else. I’ll call you.

Me: OK! [Don't need to be told twice. Hightail it to a safe distance within earshot and out of nasal danger.]

PantyHead: MMMMM, MOOOOO, MOOOOO, MMMMMMM [Pause] MOOOO, MMMM, MOOOOOOOO [Sounds of a barnyard animal escape tightly closed bathroom door.] MOOOOO, MOOOOOO [Pause] MOOOOO [Starting to worry PantyHead might drop a lung] MOOOOO, EMMA-LAURA [my new double-barrel moniker] EMMA!

Me: Yes, COMING! [Burst through bathroom door, remarkably no stench apparent?]

PantyHead: Oh, Emma I need a drink of water. Quick, a drink of water!

Me: [Exit stage left to retrieve hydration, have never heard of anyone requiring mid-shit water break before. Return and hand glass to her Pantyship.]

PantyHead: Oh, Thank you. It’s hard work you know?

Me: Clearly.

PantyHead: What?

Me: Nothing dearie. Should I take that glass?

PantyHead: Yes, ooh, I’ll call you.

Me: [Exit, like streak of cat’s piss. Standby awaiting further instruction]

PantyHead: MOOOO, MOOOO, MMMMMOOOOOO, MMMMMMM [Pause] MOOOO

Me: [Thinking to self] I wonder what a cow in labour sounds like?

PantyHead: MOOOOO, MOOOO, EMMA! LAURA! EMMA!

Me: [Re-entering fortress of solitude (minus the solitude)] I’M HERE. YES?

PantyHead: More water!

Me: [Rehydrate PantyHead, worry that she may be in danger of falling through own bottom.]

PantyHead: Ok [hands me glass] I’ll call you.

[And there were more barnyard sounds, quite a few more until finally:]

PantyHead: EMMA! EMMA!

Me: YES, I’M HERE.

PantyHead: Hold my skirts up. It wasn’t anything.

------------------------------------------Eish------------------------------------------

Quick, More Bloody Valium!

I don't think the Valium is working. PantyHead spent a good portion of the day scribbling exacting calculations on a small piece of paper of presisely when she should take her pills, the instructions said 3 times a day, as required:

PantyHead: Oh, Emma come here I need you to look at this [Waving piece of paper covered in numerical scribblings around]

Me: OK, COMING. [Exasperated sigh]

PantyHead: Now I have to take my pills exactly 8 hours apart. As I took one at 4.30 that means 4.30, 12.30 and 8.30. But that doesn't finish at 4.30 so I'm confused.

Me: I DON'T THINK THEY HAVE TO BE TAKEN EXACTLY 8 HOURS APART. [Shouted at 10000000 decibels to penetrate the elderly inner-ear]

PantyHead: Yes, 8 hours apart, that's what I said.

Me: NO, THEY DON'T HAVE TO BE TAKEN 8 HOURS APART! THE INSTRUCTIONS SAY 3 TIMES A DAY. [Increasing volume of ear-ringing screech]

PantyHead: In ENGLAND that means 8 hours apart. You see you wouldn't know because you're not English. You're from that hot country with the flat mountain.

Me: YES, SOUTH AFRICA.

PantyHead: You see, Emma, so you wouldn't know. I know because I'm English and I understand English prescriptions. Pass me the phone I'm going to phone the Doctor.

And despite a conversation in which the Doctor reiterated everything I had just said PantyHead had a sleepless night clock watching and popping valiums at midnight and 4.30am. She reported to me in the morning that she fell asleep between midnight and 4am, which according to her is unusual as these pills are stimulants. She also informed me that they are of great value on the black market to people who want to stay up drinking and dancing all night. I didn't have the strength to correct her.

Now if only I had some Valium...

Minor Stroke

Today I came in from my precious 2 hours of time off to be greeted by the following scene:

PantyHead: [Sitting in armchair with skirt hoicked up round her middle, bald head on display, wig resting on side-table like small cat] Oh, Emma! Emma! Emma! [Frantic hand waving in my direction] I’m so glad you’re back, there’s been a DISASTER. Oh, Emma, the Doctor came and he rang the pharmacy and the pills will be delivered any minute!

Me: CALM DOWN, PLEASE. TELL ME WHAT HAS HAPPENED? [Screeched at level high enough to penetrate geriatric ears and cause me tinnitus at same time]

PantyHead: I had a minor stroke. My blood pressure rose and my pulse was very high, then my right arm started to tingle, my leg went numb and I couldn’t walk.

Me: Oh! [Head nod, eyes-wide with amazement]

PantyHead: Yes, I nearly fell down, but I knew what to do, this happened once before in the middle of the night when I had to call the Doctor from his bed. So I thought, Emma, I thought I had best not wait. I knew I was having a minor stroke.

Me: Really [Head nod, eyes tinted with glimmer of actual concern]

PantyHead: The Doctor came right round and he said I did the right thing by calling him. He gave me two pills there and then and phoned the pharmacy. The pills will be here any minute.

[DING-DONG! Doorbell rings]

Me: Oh, THERE’S THE DOOR. IT MUST BE THE PILLS. [Exit to retrieve drug drop off]

The pills arrived and PantyHead duly quaffed one, whilst doing her seated foot stomping in order to raise her blood pressure enough to swallow her drugs. With the pills digesting she dialled down the crazy to a mere panic. At this point I was feeling a little alarmed that something might actually be wrong. Fearing that PantyHead might have a tenuous grip on mortality I snuck upstairs to google her medication. The Doctor had prescribed Diazepam – one to be taken three times a day when needed.

Hmm, Diazepam sounds familiar, search results: Diazepam ( /daɪˈæzɨpæm/), first marketed as Valium ( /ˈvæliəm/)

Damn the Doctor is good.

Obsessive-compulsive-scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs-she’s-so-deaf-hypercondriac

At night PantyHead likes to have some midnight snacking at hand. She requires the following items perched on a tray next to her bed:
• 2 bowls
• 2 spoons
• 1 portion shredded wheat in a clear plastic bag sealed with red clip
• 1 portion weetabix in clear plastic sealed with yellow clip
• 2 glasses tap water
• 1 plastic jug of tap water

Placed on the carpet under the side table she requires:
• 2 flasks of tap water
• 2 flasks sweetened skimmed milk
• 1 larger flask sweetened semi-skimmed milk

The flasks must be lined up with regimental symmetry. The milk must be sweetened using 12 tablets of sweetener per flask. This must be dissolved, as per her instructions, by mixing the 12 sweeteners with one eggcup of boiling hot water. The sweetener must be dissolved in the eggcup at approximately midday so as to allow the water plenty of time to cool before adding it to the milk in the evening. In the morning PantyHead will have used one flask of milk and a thimble-full of shredded wheat.

Of course I knew she was ‘knitting with one needle’ the minute I spied the 3 bananas symmetrical placed side-by-side on the floor next to the front door (as this is according to her rationale the freshest place to store them). What with her weird food-isms and milk left out in her boiling hot bedroom all night I’m not surprised that PantyHead gets stomach aches, although she attributes them to the Stomach Cancer.

Yesterday the pain was 'bad' and I was urged to ring the Doctor:

PantyHead: Now, Emma [blatant refusal to learn my real name] you must call the Doctor, tell him when he arrives that I will not be able to talk to him as this moves the pain out of my stomach and then he won’t be able to feel it and I want him to feel it.

And so her (Private i.e. very well paid) Doctor arrived:

Doctor: How are you?

PantyHead: Umm, urgh, ah. [Long pause] Mmm. [Pause] Mmm. [Eventually pressure is too much, talk bursts out, like small child trying to keep a secret] Oh, Doctor I’m going to have to talk to you. I didn’t want to because when I talk my blood pressure drops so low and the pain moves out of my stomach.

Doctor: Ahuh [sympathetic head nod].

PantyHead: Yes, because my blood pressure gets so low. Do you know the pressure is high in this arm [lifts up right arm] and low in this one [feeble flick with left arm]?

Doctor: I see. [Head nod, eyes slightly glazed, think he is mentally arithmetising value of this visit]

At this point I left them to it, but wandered past again to hear this snippet of conversation:

PantyHead: Feel my stomach can you feel the pain? I think it’s the cancer.

Doctor: I felt your stomach last time I was here and do you remember when I stuck my finger up your bottom…

I stopped eavesdropping at this point. I don't care how much the good Doctor is being paid at least I don’t have to stick my finger up her anus.

The Original Fox Mange

Mrs PantyHead is the original Fox Mange. Today she spent majority of the day airing her balding head. As it was not hidden beneath her ‘Rod Stewart’ wig or her head-knickers I got a close view of her alopecia, cradle-capped scalp – which had the appearance of being covered in sliced almonds. As she insists that I hold her dress up around her ears every time she goes to the loo (“Hold it up! Hold it up! Have you got it; I don’t want it to get wet. Hold it up!”) I studied her almond-scalp many times today and images of Roald Dahl’s ‘The Witches’ came repeatedly to mind.

PantyHead did occasionally cover her head when she was watching T.V., which she uses wireless headphones for. The headphones are propped on exactly 4 man-sized tissues folded in half and so for some of the day she was just sitting around with a wad of tissues balanced on her head.

Tissue Head was also mildly obsessive about the weather forecast. This spiralled into me jotting down tonight and tomorrow’s London temperatures and then shouting them back to her so that she could in turn write them down. Unfortunately this plan was flawed by the fact that she is as deaf as a doorpost and I would tell her the temperature in degrees Celsius, but she wanted it in Fahrenheit:

Me: TONIGHT IT WILL BE 13’C.

PantyHead: What?

Me: 13 DEGREES CELSIUS TONIGHT!

PantyHead: What is that in Fahrenheit? Hang on 13x2=26, and, +30=56

Me: YES THAT’S RIGHT 56 DEGREES FARENHEIT TONIGHT.

PantyHead: So that’s, hang on, 56x2=112, hang on, +30=142, well gosh that’s hot.

Me: NO, IT’S NOT IT’S 56 DEGREES FARENHEIT! 56 NOT 142

PantyHead: What?

Me: NO, IT’S 13’CELSIUS AND 56’ FARENHEIT. IT’S NOT HOT!

PantyHead: Well, it may not be hot to you, but it’s hot to me.

Eventually I gave up trying to convince her that it’s not really going to be the surface temperature of the sun tonight. When she grew tired of obsessing about the weather she became engrossed in a book entitled ‘Nutrition’. When it came to lunch she spent her time taking one mouthful of her cod and mash ready meal (remember she only eats 3 ready meals in rotation), followed by an acute study of the ingredients listed on the meal’s packaging cross-referenced with the Nutrition book. Later in the day PantyHead developed an awful tummy ache:

PantyHead: [Perched in chair with tissue wad perched atop of bald head] My stomach is really very sore Emma [my new name]. I’m in such pain. If you just sit down here I’ll tell you exactly what I think it is.

Me: OKAY, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS?

PantyHead: I eat sweeteners because I can’t have sugar, because of my blood pressure Emma. My Doctor gave me some sweeteners, but he warned me that I mustn’t take too many or I’ll get the stomach cancer.

Me: [Nodding knowingly] Oh, really?

PantyHead: So I was very careful about them and didn’t take too many. But then I had a girl.

Me: Aha [nod].

PantyHead: She came from a warm climate [points to her cheek] black skin.

Me: Yes [more nodding].

PantyHead: She brought me ice cream and said ‘this is ice-cream with sweetener in it, because you can’t have sugar.’

Me: [Nod, smile, nod]

PantyHead: I thought nothing of it, Emma, before realising that it was the same sweetener the Doctor had given me. But it was too late I had eaten half!

Me: [Attempting wild-eyed nod indicating both encouragement and horror at discovery]

PantyHead: And since then I’ve had the stomach pains, so I know it’s the cancer. That’s why tomorrow I’m going to speak to the Doctor and if he says there is nothing wrong, Emma, I’ll go to a specialist.

Me: Aha [head nod].

PantyHead: But don’t tell my children. We’ll keep this between us.

Me: Ok [nod].

PantyHead: But if I do feel ill, Emma, you must do me a favour. Put the stopper in the sink in there [gestures to bathroom] we don’t want any of it to escape and then the Doctor can look at it.

@£$%%^& Sweet Mother *&^@£$!?!

Mrs PantyHead

I’ve arrived in London at my newest G.A.P.E role. Here are the things The Agency didn’t tell me:

- My new charge would wear a Rod Stewart style wig. At the end of the day the wig would be rested on her pillow (in the manner of a domestic pet) while she donned a replacement pair of knickers on her head. Henceforth I shall refer to her as Mrs PantyHead.

- PantyHead does not sleep lying down (which I find strangely vampiric) instead she will spend the day moving from armchair to armchair until finally sleeping in the armchair next to her bed. (On the plus side this saves on washing her sheets).

- PantyHead has suddenly developed mild incontinence and needs to ‘spend a penny’ constantly. The District Nurse thinks this could be a urinary tract infection, I think it is more to do with the fact that she believes herself to be dehydrated and has quaffed 2 glasses of water in about 10 minutes and ordered me to fill a jug of water (+2 more full water glasses) for next to her chair. (This has been an ongoing order over the next 1hour, I have now slowed her water supply as surely 2 litres in 1 hour is dangerous for cell osmosis or something.)

- In conjunction with my arrival PantyHead has been kitted out with heavy-duty sanitary pads to prevent further knicker-wettage, unfortunately I now have to remind her to go to the loo as I believe she will simply let fly in her “protection” as she refers her pads. She also rather alarmingly asked me if I would like to feel her pads to check they are not wet. I declined.

- PantyHead is obsessed with her Blood Pressure and pulse and has a cuff in each room with which to measure the changes. Accordingly she has some interesting theories on the relationship between food and her B.P i.e. she cannot eat food containing sugar as this makes her blood pressure too low and vice-versa she cannot eat food that involves any chewing as this makes her blood pressure too high.

- PantyHead has trouble swallowing her medication (which is a diuretic- I’m no medical expert but doesn’t a diuretic make one pass more water, hence the extensive knicker-wettage?). The problem with swallowing her meds is that her B.P gets too low and so in order to raise it she shuffles her feet around in a weird Rumplestiltskin moonwalk at the same time as swallowing her pill. This appears to work for her.

- PantyHead is a little confused. When I returned from my brief time off (2-4pm) we had to relocate her and all her possessions into her bedroom. Please bear in mind I had to carry all of these items through: a butt-donut to sit upon (also called a pile pillow?); 2 cushions; a rug (to accompany the rug already over her knees, in case of extreme frigidity, although it is mid-summer in sweltering London); a doorbell receiver with which to summon me (repeatedly); a cordless telephone (she is too deaf to converse on); 3 toothpicks; a box of tissues; a roll of bog roll; a notepad; a pen; her side table (on which to rest her 2 water glasses + jug of water); a pouffe; her commode armchair and her walking stick. After moving the afore mentioned items PantyHead asked me to draw the curtains and said she was going to sleep. About 30 minutes later she rang me to continue her water boarding and apologised for “waking me:”

PantyHead: Ooh, I’m sorry to wake you, but I need more water.

Me: DON’T WORRY I WASN’T SLEEPING. [Shouted at volume 100 in my best deaf geriatric voice]

PantyHead: [Looking startled] Why? Don’t you ever sleep?

Me: I WILL A BIT LATER, IT’S STILL VERY EARLY.

PantyHead: Really? [Rabbit in headlights startled] But what time will you go to sleep?

Me: AT ABOUT 10 P.M.
PantyHead: [Looking from me to the bedside clock and back to me] It’s 5 o’clock now.

Me: YES, IT’S 5 P.M, 5 O’CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON. [I gesture wildly towards the light streaming through the curtains and make flashing ‘5’ hands at her panty clad head]

PantyHead: I need more water. I think I’m dehydrated. The Doctor told me that I must drink lots of water…if I drink water I will be able to walk easily.

-------------

All in all a cracking start. The previous (very lovely) Kiwi carer has said that occasionally PantyHead’s blood pressure drops so low that she can’t speak and then a game of charades ensues, I’ve been assured she is a terrible mime. Can’t wait for tomorrow…