Years ago, my father's brother took his family and moved them some 200 kms away from us. Since my father resented the fact that his brother's wife insisted on a phone call before a visit, we basically never saw them or their 3 sons again. I must have been about 10 when I last trudged the meadows with my cousins on my father's side, and somehow, in all the intervening years, whenever their existence crossed my mind, I pictured them as little boys. I remember how I went hunting for frogs with S., and how M. insisted on rescuing a baby bird that had fallen out of the nest when it was clear to both S. and myself that it would be better off having its neck snapped; and as to A., well, I only remember him in nappies...Now I have it here in black and white, that those litte boys have families of their own. And I'm strangely confused by that. If I met them in the street tomorrow, I wouldn't recognize them.
But then, I almost didn't recognize my own father this afternoon. I'm not happy with the level of care he receives in the home he's in. I know they're short-staffed and all that, but is that any reason to put his clothes on back to front? There were several unwashed cups and plates littered around his room, and his bed hadn't been made. They charge us 1200 euros a month, and they can't even find the time to comb his hair? It's a bleeding disgrace.
Also, the hot water isn't working, and according to my Dad, the hot water has been off for over a week now. He's complained about it, but nothing has been done to correct the problem.
I've made an appointment to see the manager next week, because this is simply not on.