These last few days have been shit for me, even shitter for my Mum but the shittiest for my Dad who had a stroke on Sunday, tumbling down the stairs and  now finds himself in the Leicester Royal Infirmary, ward 25 and 25a, the Stroke Ward. He’s had a massive stroke before, 20 years ago, so he’s an expert, last time it fucked his speech, but his mobility was ok, he played a lot of golf in those 20 yeas, covered a lot of fairway miles in a buggy, this time its fucked his mobility and consequently I don’t think he’ll be bashing the keyboard on a piano unless he falls over it.

On Sunday he fell down the stairs, didn’t think to tell anyone until Monday, went to the hospital, stayed in for long enough to allow him to discharge him self, then came back in on Tuesday because he hadn’t had a piss for the same time. They took him into the stroke ward, theres no visitors so I could only give a bag of contraband (Tory newspaper, kit-kats and some Pyjamas) and told the nurse to give him a kiss from me. The current situation is pretty sad. He’s still being assessed, so he’s not got him self into the let’s try and get out of here phase, and tonight he told me he’d had a little cry. He’s never told me anything like that, and it makes me want to protect him.

On the Tuesday when I came over the ambulance was there and the paramedics were fussing and making notes, he  was full of piss and fit to burst but for whatever reason could not let the rivers of gold run free, he couldn’t have a poo either, but thats beside the point. Mum tells all the neighbours that he’s got a problem with his PeeWee, but then she’s got an issue with putting the bins out so lets say we’re equal. I arrived and was talking to Dad, who had been shifted about a little bit and everyone was busying them selves to get himself ready for Phase 2, “What the fuck do we do now?” which coincidentally was similar to phase 1 and I predict will be alike to phase 3.

Anyway, suddenly, he managed to wee, he pissed himself infront of me when I was talking to him, which is either a good thing or a good thing depending on who’s perspective you are looking from. So I had to remove my Dad’d PJs, dry him off and help him put on a new pair. Tuesday was the first time I had seen my Dad’s Penis for decades, and as I knelt between his legs, trying to sort him out I looked at him and said, “Lets not talk about this again” This was   betoken as a sign that we should probably get someone in to help. Or maybe not, me and Dad seem to be on the same wavelength and the ultimate aim is to get him back home with Mum in their draughty old house for the winter and then get them over here to live under the strict rule makers  of the Count of North Clifton.