A true, unvarnished story.
Yesterday I drove to see my eighty-eight year old father at his home, a few days in advance of a hernia operation he is to undergo next week. Over a coffee we went through the schedule for the day – i.e. the time I will arrive at his home to collect him; the time he is intended to arrive at the hospital (4.00pm); and, depending upon exactly which day when he is ‘let out’, what the arrangements might be made for returning him home afterwards.
We had no long moved on to other subjects when he caught himself in mid-sentence and said: “Oh, before I forget – something else about the operation arrangements. When you’ve dropped me off at the hospital, do you think you could take my wallet away with you for safekeeping?”
I confirmed that I could do this, but countered that he might like to keep some money with him in case he wanted to buy small items, e.g. fruit or newspapers. He dismissed the suggestion, commenting that he wasn’t bothered about such things.
“As regards my wallet, don’t get me wrong. Each room at the hospital does have its own safe …” he added, “… but I’m just panicking that I shall forget my own fucking combination number!”