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I’d been waking up so often during the night, fretting over something going wrong or forgetting to take something to the meeting with the psychiatrist later on. At 0620, I decided to get up and start gathering and checking things for the trip. Not a good start… 
A . As I climbed cautiously out of bed, my back started giving me some grief, so I got on my feet and stood up to ease the discomfort. I may have eaten something after getting into bed last night. Because I trod on a fork on the floor. Naturally, I just laughed it off.
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When I’d finished cursing, I got a heat pad stuck on my back, and pondered over things needing doing for the visit to the hospital. I thought it a good idea to put the lists Jenny had kindly checked and printed for me into the three-wheeled walker, so I wouldn’t forget later.
Stubbing my ingrown toenail on the wheel of the trolley, I again laughed it off.  
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Carer Andrew arrived; he put some cream on my back and… remembered to put my diabetic socks on. On me, I meant. Hahaha! Medications given, got on his mobile and then off he shot without any ceremony.
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Then I went to the wet room, spending the longest I have ever spent evacuating the almost-water product.
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I did what I could, but time was running out as I waited for the Carer, and luckily the nurse came earlier than planned, and she checked the leg wound, gave them the okay, and hastily got me dressed. Bless her
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Carer Ejaz arrived and rang a taxi; we were soon on our way to the Highbury hospital meeting. The driver took the wrong route and dropped us off in the wrong place. We went inside; Ejaz asked for directions to where we wanted to go. Then we walked to the building. Fortune shone; we got to the appointment just in time. We were taken to a room. To find a disappointing fact.
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After all the hard work Jenny had done to get a four-page list of questions to be asked; typed, printed, and put into envelopes; the lady told me she and the psychiatrist ve had a meeting and decided, after getting her report, that I had two Dementias. Mixed Dementia: Frontotemporal & Vascular Dementia,  and this has now been confirmed.
All without the man or woman meeting or talking to me.
I was hoping to spread the word about my not coping, getting things done and would love to be moved into a home to finish my life without frustration. 
Well, summat like that.
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She told me I would not see her again; nothing further could be done for me. 
So, thus and therefore, my first ever meeting with a psychiatrist did not mature.
I’ve never seen a ghost either, ready to see the Grim Reaper after today, though. Hahahah!
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As we left, I felt guilty and sorry for Jenny. Guilt for not realising they had held their own meeting and decided my fate. And for asking Jenny for her help with the long list, which she did, thinking it would help, and it was unneeded! All that work she did!
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The taxi Ejaz ordered arrived. In the biggest BMW I’ve ever seen! It needed help from Ejaz and the driver, plus a plastic stool to stand on, to get into it. Amazingly, I looked around and asked Ejaz what all this was for in the back of the cab. There were mobile charging points, cup holders, a big shaded glass roof, and buttons to heat the seat if needed! No wonder the trip cost so much.
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We got home; Ejaz had to move on to his next client. I still felt terrible that Jenny’s work wasn’t used. The lady did ask if she could let the psychiatrist see the printout.
I agreed readily and said This is the lady that keeps me going; I’d be glad if he/she would read it. 
I went into a semi-depression then, and decided to tell it how it went when I phoned Jenny. I felt bad.
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Carer Andrew arrived while I was starting to update this blog. I spoke of what had taken place for a long time. As I told him the tale, I took my eyes of the screen; he was on his phone. He did show signs of sympathy. He took these two shots of the skies, as he put my torch on the balcony to catch any sun to charge it up.
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Carer Ahmed, or was it Carer Imran? Well, one of them did the late call. We managed a laugh or two. A rarity.
He took off the diabetic socks, applied some heat gel to the lower back, and issued painkillers. No Peptac, because I’d not eaten yet, not even started cooking it. 
He did the safety checks and asked if I knew the oven was on. I pointed out that I was going to use it after he’d departed, but could I remember what I was going to cook? No! He laughed as I said, “Well, I could blame my bad memory on having Frontotemporal & Vascular Dementia, both types of Alzheimer’s.” But seriously, this past week, my memory has got so much worse. And I swear that the arithmaphobia has, too.
The Carer had a look at the medical returns and pointed out that the urine in millimetres passed, that is, arrived at by adding up each jug emptied and dividing it by the number of jugs used. I had got both figures wrong. I’ll have to correct them on the next chart. Good of him to notice and inform me; he even worked out what they should have been. He checked the taps and suggested, after I recalled that it was the cheap end bits of bacon I was going to cook, that I stay there in the kitchen the whole time. He’s not been coming for a long time, but he’s picked up the things I get wrong quickly. I usually go into the front room and fall asleep until the fire alarm goes off and wakes me. (Not often, though!) This is part of why I miss Mirza, who hasn’t called for such a long time, and Ejaz, who calls far less often nowadays; they are both reliable lads. I am disappointed.
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I got the bacon in the oven, and sliced some tomatoes and salted them, after suxking the blood from the finger I cut. Then took this shot of the sun on its way down. Then got the spuds from the slow cooker and put some Teriyaki sauce on each one on the tray. Then I took this closer shot of the sunset. Nice!
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Back to the dinner making. Started by making two thick-sliced sarnie sandwiches with small-cut pickle spread on the bread. Got the spuds and tomatoes on the foil tray. (Not so much washing-up to do) Added some Sesame Soy sauce, and settled into the £300 second-hand shop-bought, c1966, moth-eaten, bedraggled, grotty, cringingly beige-coloured, much-dilapidated, crumb-containing from my nocturnal nibblings, bug-ridden, itch-inspiring, not working recliner to watch an episode of my favourite, ‘Heartbeat’, on the TV and eat the meal.
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INCHIES TALES OF WOE
This did not, of course, go exactly to plan.
I didn’t need to say that really, did I?
As I recall it, the first thing was that I’d left my torch on the balcony. So I had to get up, go out, open the balcony door, grab the torch, close the door, come back in, and almost settle into the recliner…
When I turned on the TV, I realised that I’d still got my reading glasses on. Painfully removed my colossally moribund disabled body from the recliner, stubbing my toe as I got to the computer desk, swapped glasses, returned to the recliner…
As I settled into the least painful position so as not to set my back off again, then, at long last, I bit heartily into the first bacon sarnie… And dropped it! I’m ashamed to say, I swore and cursed. As I got out of the recliner, I used a kitchen towel to clean up the spilt pile of no butter, butter, sauce, pickle and bacon from my dressing gown, legs, feet and the poor, now dingy carpet.
Got settled again, and ate the meal and still found it satisfactory under the delayed eating process.
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