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Friday, 7 July 2017

In which it's a sick joke...

Wish I was one of them 'donkeys with sore feet' off the telly who everyone sends three quid to instead of just a solitary beast of burden, see above...

Slumped on the second hand sofa at the mo, wishing I could afford enough vodka and fags to 'bad habit' meself into oblivion, and, just realised it's been a whole month since I've vented me spleen in this manner.

Am absolutely shagged, and look it! Am now looking after the old, sick and needy who aren't as old etc etc as poor me! Me lovely long eyelashes have all fallen out. Stress, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway even if they hadn't, wouldn't be able to bung on any mascara as now have 'Cooper Eye' a family trait where puffy, droopy eyelids develop making me look even more porcine than before.

Saw a picture in the paper the other day of two carers asleep in a dementia home. They've been suspended. Yes, I know it shouldn't happen, but I wonder if any of their detractors have ever worked a twelve and a half hour shift in a boiling hot, urine scented home being pinched, slapped and screamed at, with just two five minute breaks.

Incessant, shrill alarms sound all day and all night calling hoards of eastern European and elderly unskilled drones like me to tend to our Queens.

Tending to the world of 'learning difficulties' was a whole different kettle of fish: there's a faint glimmer of improvement sometimes. The world of Dementia is whole other nightmare.

Farming the demented is big business and set to get bigger. Company owners growing fat on the backs of minimum wage drones and the misery of skeletal, twisted bodies housing dying brains, being kept ticking by medical advances.

'We're all living longer' trumpet the pioneers. Maybe so, but there's a whole hidden generation who are merely existing.

It's desperately sad, and quite frankly, sick in the extreme.