Spanish omelette with salad

I didn’t sleep well last night – I kept dreaming of venomous critters biting at my hands and feet, and waking myself by knocking the lamp over, kicking the base of the bed, or coming too close to the edge of the bed in trying to escape.

Despite that, and the fact I’ve been sleepwalking through the day as a result, most of the day was good. Mum woke up with a headache but decided she didn’t need painkillers. She voluntarily watched the Winter Olympics and commented with interest on the action. (Until the speed-skating (aka ‘people going round in circles for ages’) proved not to hold her interest, anyway.)

Then her headache got worse and the complaining started: her head hurt, the weather was bad, there was nothing on tv, her head hurt, I had done too much shopping, her head hurt, and so on. (And on. And on.)

Just as my patience was wearing dangerously thin, one of her friends sent me a message asking if she could come round, which I accepted with alacrity on mum’s behalf.

Not long after she got here, our grocery order arrived. As I struggled to put everything away, I looked up to find my mum and her friend leaning on opposite sides of the doorframe, watching me like a mildly interesting tv programme. I said, a little snippily, that some help would be nice – just as a yoghurt pot slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a splat.

Mum helped after that, not wanting to see any more of her precious “round yellows” imitate last night’s free-skiing halfpipe final. (Two full revolutions and a crash landing. ⛷️)

Then we watched a bit more of the speed-skating, and discussed our own experiences of ice skating. Mine was aged about 12, when I went to a friend’s birthday party at the nearest ice rink. I stepped on the ice and have what I recognised, much later, as my first ever panic attack.

I spent the rest of the party sitting on the sidelines with the adults, shaking gently as the adrenaline faded. When I got home, I told mum what had happened, hoping for comfort. Instead, mum yelled at me for embarrassing her in public and wasting the money she had spent on sending me to the party, then sent me to my room.

I recounted this story today, and mum was horrified, apologising repeatedly for being so unpleasant to a frightened child. And that’s the cruellest thing about mum’s Alzheimer’s: in many ways she’s a much nicer person than she was before it happened. I was told some time ago that mum’s behaviour would change as she forgot about the social norms that had been drilled into her throughout her life and, atm at least, the effect of that is that she’s less judgemental and more kind.

And more complain-y, of course, but you can’t win ’em all.

As light relief after that conversation, I looked online for cats for adoption and found a gorgeous one at the local branch of the RSPCA. Unlike Cats Protection, where you can go over and meet the cats before deciding whether to adopt, at the RSPCA you have to apply first.

So tomorrow I will go round taking the photos of our house and garden that are a required part of the application, then put my writing skills to good use in crafting an application that will persuade the staff at the RSPCA that we’re the best home for one of their purry cuties. 🤞

Dinner was Spanish omelette, one of my favourite “I like it, mum will eat it, that’ll do” meals. Now mum’s watching Britain’s Got Talent, I’m writing this on my phone and flicking over to the text commentary of the curling at the end of each sentence.

Now I’m going to hit publish, grab my Kindle, and watch the curling while flicking over to the text commentary of the bobsleigh at the end of each end.

See ya. 🥌🧹🏅