I’m taking mental notes for my old age

I know straight away, from the look on my friend Alice’s face, whether it’s a ‘bad carer’ day. Five years ago Alice had a fall and she can’t now do stairs, so she lives just on the second floor of her maisonette in north London. When I drop round, the carer is usually in the kitchen and Alice in her bedroom/sitting room next door. If it’s a bad carer day, she’ll look towards the kitchen, do a thumbs-down sign, purse her lips and shake her head, then she’ll wriggle her shoulders – hoity toity – to indicate that she feels bossed about.

I suppose infirm 88-year-olds often need to be bossed about in a way. There are 960,000 people in this country, taken care of at home like Alice, and they need to be dressed, fed, heaved on and off the portable potty chair. But Alice isn’t making up the bad carer days. She’s a beady old cockney who doesn’t complain lightly, and if she’s nervous of a carer, it means she has reason to be. On ‘bad carer’ days her hair is unbrushed and knotted and when she asks for tea, she’s told no, so as to minimise potty trips. She’s often had cheese sandwiches for both lunch and dinner, I notice, and she stays all day in her nightie. I had thought a reluctant carer might be particularly grateful for visitors, but it’s the surly ones who want me out quickest, and glare until I leave.

I find it fascinating and alarming that without ever having planned it as a strategy, on a bad carer day, Alice and I will both talk as loudly as we can about how fabulous the carers are and how lucky she is to have them, in the hope they’re listening.