Praise for council foot soldiers
I can’t thank kind carers enough
I popped over to Fawlty Towers on Sunday with a food parcel for my old dad.
He’s coming up on his 94th year... and that little ninth floor flat in Ayr’s Riverside Place has been his home for two thirds of them.
It’s not changed much.
He’s got the same chair he sat on when I told him he was going to be a grandfather.
It’s the chair he was sitting on when I told him he was going to be a great grandfather.
And it’s the same chair I watched him slumped in sorrow in the long, hollow hours after my mother’s funeral.
Bob Snr is always delighted to see me.
To be honest, I’m still not sure if it’s me – or the boxes of his favourite Jaffa cakes and chocolate fingers that come with me!
And I am always delighted to see him.
But along with the cakes and biscuits come that unsettling uncertainty.
It’s the thought that doesn’t bear thinking about . . . but it greets me on his doormat every time.
I ring his buzzer and wait for a faint “Hello?” as he checks on who is at the door.
One day, sometime, there isn’t going to be a “Hello?” from the other side.
But when the door slowly opens and his wee face peers out, I’m just grateful that ‘ sometime’ isn’t ‘ this time’.
But I know that feeling of doorway dread will be there waiting for me . . . the next time.
And every time.
We sip tea – I eat half of his precious Jaffa cakes – and he’ll eventually get round to asking what’s happening with his flat.
His memory might be slipping – but he’s a voracious reader of the Ayrshire Post – and those reports that the riverside flats are earmarked for demolition.
The “update” letters from the housing department only add to his confusion.
“What’s going to happen to me, son?” “I don’t know, dad. But it’s nothing to worry about . . . at the moment.”
And then there’s the awkward silence ... before I try to change the subject.
But inside, I’m asking what kind of council would do this to my dad ... and a host of frightened residents just like him?
But here’s the twist . . . my damning of South Ayrshire Council only lasts as far as the kitchen.
And within a few paces – I suddenly can’t thank them enough.
His tiny kitchen has a little home – made “visitors book” – an informal record of anyone who comes to see him.
It helps jog his memory – it’s the definitive ‘ aide- de- memoir”.
Every carer, every visit, every meal and every medication is in there.
“9.15 – Monday – Bob, made you tea and toast and gave you your morning medication – Mary”
“18.30 – Thursday – Hi Bob, made you cottage pie and a yoghurt. See you tomorrow! – Betty”
The messages are short, sweet and reassuring.
For this hard- bitten, grumbly old journalist – they are the most heartwarming read of any day of the week.
And none of it would be possible without the huge help and assistance of the people this column pillories the most . . . South Ayrshire Council.
Well . . . some of them anyway! And I guess that’s the paradox of my parable .
Last week, this column was lobbing a few thought grenades at the commander of South Ayrshire Council.
This week, I can’t thank some of its foot soldiers enough!
But no matter what your rank is in society, may you long have a door you want to knock.
And may you long hear “Hello?” from behind it!
Every carer, every visit, every meal and every medication is in there