B. Johnson - House Mother Normal

That shows the value of keeping accounts.

It’s certain he wouldn’t have remembered it, conveniently,

unless I’d mentioned it.

Don’t think I do this for the money, friend. The

Council takes all their pensions and allows them

back one pound each for their personal expenditure.

That is too much, to my way of thinking. They have

no need of that much pocket money. No, friend,

not for their money: you can see there is little

chance here of the quick oncer.

Ah, Charlie has nearly finished. He’ll be asking

me about corks soon. I’ll go down now.

The rest might as well finish now, too.

Right now, everyone. You can finish now. You’ve

done a good session of work, and so now you

deserve to play. But let’s clear up first ,

shall we? Ivy, please collect the boxes for

us . Descend from my throne.

Charlie, yes, I knew you’d ask. You’ve got corks

from the ones which were full, haven’t you?

Good. Then here’s

some more for the others, just stand the boxes

in the corner if you will, please, afterwards .

Ralphie! Come away from that! You all right ,

Mrs Stanton? Right as she’ll ever be. Done no

work at all. George, you’ve just been

daydreaming! And screwing up the bits of

paper and getting the bleeding glue all over the

place! Ugh! Still, what

did I expect?

How about you, Mrs Bowen? You’ve been working

with Ivy and Ron, have you? Very nicely, too

You’ve done a lot between you. Yes, yes .

And greedy old Mrs Ridge ,

you haven’t done any! Don’t you cheek

me or you’ll get another taste of the twitcher, the

twitcher! Now then!

Very good, Sarah, my old trusty, what a lovely job

you’ve made of those! I’m very pleased with you ,

very pleased indeed. Yes, and you, Charlie.

Now let’s have some relaxation. Attention please,

everyone! Stay where you are ,

sitting round the long table, and we’re going to

play Pass the Parcel. You pass the parcel from

one to another, and when the music stops whoever

has it tries to open it. When the music starts

again, the parcel must be passed on. And so on .

And what a lovely surprise the last one’s going to

get, the winner! Here we go then. You start off

with the music, Sarah. Off we go!

Music on.

Stop

at Mrs Ridge.

On again.

Music stopped at Sarah. Give her

a treat, she’s worked well, give her a bit of ex-

citement. On again.

Oh my darlings, how I love you!

Pass it on, Mrs Ridge! While the music’s playing it …

I should think so. Stop the music.

Who’s won, then? Yes, it’s Ron! Ron’s the lucky winner!

You’re right, Ron, first time. It’s SHIT!

But whose shit is it? That’s the question! I’ll sing it

for you: Pass the parcel, pass the parcel .

See what comes from RALPHIE’S arsehole!

How disgusting! you must be saying to yourself,

friend, and I cannot but agree. But think a bit

harder, friend: why do I disgust them?

I disgust them in order that they may not be

disgusted with themselves. I am disgusting to them

in order to objectify their disgust, to direct it to

something outside themselves, something harmless.

Some of them still believe in God: what would

happen if they were to turn their disgust on God

for taking away control over their own sphincter

muscles, for instance, and think, naturally enough,

that He must be vile to be responsible for such

a thing? Far better for them to think

handling and smelling and seeing doggie’s turd is

disgusting! Do you not agree?

Right, everyone! Attention please! The game is

over and now it’s our Travel Time . It’s so

much more tasteful an expression than Exercise,

don’t you think, friend? Travel Time. Yes, I

know your old bones protest, but you know it’s good

for you. Those of you who can walk push round those

in wheelchairs, those in wheelchairs move everything

you can move as you go. Off we go now!

There are worse conditions and worse places, friend.

I have worked in geriatric wards where the stench of

urine and masturbation was relieved only by the odd

gangrenous limb or advanced carcinoma. Where confused

patients ate each other’s puke. Where I have seen a

nurse spray a patient’s privates with an aerosol

lavatory deodorant. Even worse, people like

these can be put away in mental wards and homes

when they are perfectly sane, simply because they

are old: they don’t stay perfectly sane long.

They are stripped of their spectacles, false teeth,

everything personal to them. They are shut away,

visits are rare and discouraged anyway, no one cares;

they are forgotten and wholly in the power of nurses

who have been known to make them alter their wills,

to scatter the ward’s pills for everyone to scramble

for, and to put Largactil in the tea unmeasured.

This is a happy House, friend, a holiday camp,

compared. Here I give them constant occupation, and,

most important, a framework within which to establish

— indeed, to possess — their own special personalities.

Here we respect their petty possessions, so important

to them but rubbish to us.

This is the time when the bearing surfaces of the

joints begin to wear seriously, when the walls of the

veins and arteries harden, when the nervous system

loses much of its subtlety. It has always been so.

Today we can give them more time, by nylon balls and

sockets, drugs to thin the blood, Largactil to lift

nervous depression: but ultimately these are nothing.

You should understand the

simple fact that they are all approaching death very

quickly; and one must help them to do so in the right

spirit. It is what used to be called a holy duty. I

did not invent this system: I inherited it. And in

the end death will come to me too, probably.

There. They enjoy it. Sometimes for a change I

have them doing Travel in the form of bizarre sexual

antics. As-if-sexual, that is, in the case of some

friends. And now I give you — SPORT!

Yes, it’s Tourney Time again, friends! Remember how

you enjoyed the last Tourney we had?

Of course you do! Get the wet mops, Ivy, please. And

Charlie, you wheel Mrs Bowen to one corner, and

you, Sarah, wheel George to the opposite corner .

That’s it. One mop each,

Ivy, thank you .

On the word, then, steeds and knights, you thunder

at top speed towards each other, never flinching ,

like bold and parfait gentil knights, and try to

lance each other. No stopping! Straight on, turn ,

and back for another joust. Ready then? And may the

best knight win! One! Two! Three!

Well done. Mrs Bowen! A palpable hit!

One more time, then. Off you go!

Another hit for Mrs Bowen! Sarah, see if George is

still awake, will you? He doesn’t seem to be trying