After Mother-in-Law’s rather abrupt expulsion from a Care Home she hadn’t even moved into, we were fortunate enough to find a place we all liked that was homely and secure without being intimidating. We were shocked to find there was a vacancy which we were encouraged to take up almost immediately. To soften the impact of the move, we popped into the home for afternoon tea where we introduced Molly to the staff and other residents. We thought this was a great success until Molly bluntly asked why we kept visiting a place which was full of old people; this was not exactly the response we hoped for.

When the dreaded moving day dawned, we casually dropped Molly off at the Care Home with the words “we’ll see you later” then collected the hire van in readiness to carry out the dirty deed. None of us were happy at our betrayal and we felt extremely guilty in knowing that Molly would not be returning to the home she had lived in for several years. Instead, and no matter how kindly we handled it, Molly was being forcibly moved into unfamiliar surroundings.

Molly lived in a compact one-bedroom bungalow and it was heartbreaking having to decide what would squeeze into one-room-with-en-suite loo and what to leave behind. Having to make the decision on behalf of a loved one is even more wretched and there was no joy when we closed the van’s doors on the few possessions that would be joining Molly at the home.

Staff kept Molly occupied and well out of sight whilst we unloaded and arranged her room. Surprisingly, we had chosen well as the items we selected fell into place like a much used jigsaw. The well-worn armchair claimed prime position opposite the large window overlooking the blossom-laden cherry trees lined up alongside the cul-de-sac. The china cabinet clinked noisily as it settled against a narrow wall facing the bed and the television nestled into a small corner alongside the window. Familiar family photos soon occupied every flat or smooth surface adding a warm welcome to the room. No matter how pleasant it all looked, we were dreading the moment we had to tell Molly that this was now her home.

We found an agitated and tearful Molly in the garden, constantly searching her handbag for keys which were clutched tightly in her hand. “Oh, thank goodness you’ve come, I want to go home. I don’t belong here” she said, clutching us tightly. We calmed her down with inane small-talk about how nice the garden was and comments on the warm weather – anything to put off the inevitable.

While we were away recently, we booked Mother-in-Law, Molly, into a local Care Home for a week’s respite care. Looking after an elderly relative is difficult at the best of times, but coping with someone well and truly in the grip of Alzheimer’s Disease and Dementia can be exhausting and frustrating. I tend to treat Molly like a truculent two-year old, it’s not ideal but it helps us cope. Generally, Molly and I rub along well together and we still have moments of mutual humour where Molly’s oft blank features light up with a glowing smile that reaches deep into her eyes.

We were satisfied but Molly was not. Despite constantly repeated reassurances that she would be staying for only one week, Molly was not exactly happy about her enforced holiday and let us know so in no uncertain terms. We felt extremely guilty but the lure of a much needed break helped to assuage our feeling of betrayal although we couldn’t totally relax until the plane left the runway and there was no going back….. for seven days.

The holiday was fantastic and we flew back with batteries fully charged and ready to take up our nursing duties with renewed vigour. On collecting his Mother, Hubby was casually informed by a Carer that towards the end of her stay, Molly had escaped from the home, via a side exit, setting off a full-scale search by two members of staff. Molly was found safe and well a mile away although she had to be persuaded to get in the car to be taken back to the home. Hubby, apologised profusely for his Mother’s errant behaviour and made his exit with Molly in tow as swiftly as he could.

The following Monday we received a curt letter from the Care Home informing us that Molly’s wanderings had caused their members of staff a considerable amount of inconvenience and that, henceforth, Molly’s name was being removed from their waiting list with the suggestion that we should consider looking for a smaller establishment with secure exits/entrances.

OOPS! Molly had been expelled from the Home before she had even taken up permanent residence. The search for a Care Home has to begin all over again but thank goodness we enjoyed our holiday because it could be a while before we can go on another one.

Yet another day on the course, but why is golf so difficult? Hitting a ball with a stick should be a doddle, particularly when the ‘stick’ is actually a club with a curved foot longer than the ball. Okay, perhaps the club in question does not have a foot as large as that of say, a hockey stick, but the principle is the same – make contact with the ball and the ball will propel (hopefully) forward at varying speed and angle, well, that’s the theory anyway.

Many years ago (far longer than I care to put on record) I played Left Wing for the school hockey team and had absolutely no trouble hitting the ball even after turning nimbly mid-run, but then I guess I didn’t get out of puff quite so easily either.

Today was yet another typical day hacking around the golf course and, once again, my performance was stunningly abysmal. After a long, cold winter, I couldn’t even blame the weather for my dismal performance as the damp, early morning drizzle soon made way for dazzling, warm sunshine and the biting inshore wind dropped to a soft, cool breeze. Neither could I blame mental exhaustion as we were playing ‘alternate shots’ in pairs so I only played half of my usual amount of strokes - this really is the point at which I would like to express my apologies and commiserations to my unfortunate partner.

I’ve had lessons and have religiously rehearsed the mantras “keep your head down”; “flex your knees”; “bend your wrist”; “lock your wrist”; “don’t look up”; “shift your weight (and there is a lot to shift); “keep still”…….the list is endless. In a desperate attempt to fix a devastating right-hand curved tee-shot, I’ve tried ‘alternative’ remedies and one particular cure resulted in me turning 95 degrees to the left of target and scaring the living daylights out of everyone when I miraculously hit the ball straight.

Hubby and I took our daughter Chloe and nine-year old grand-daughter Ella skiing recently and I’m delighted to say that we arrived safely back in the UK with arms and legs intact and everything bending in all the right places.

Owing to very tight financial constraints, our resort of choice was Borovets in Bulgaria. Russia’s Little Brother doesn’t have quite the same cachet as, say, Switzerland or France, but once one gets used to the rough and ready culture, it’s a great experience and excellent value even in the current drought-ridden financial climate. Oddly, despite the country’s strong Catholic influence, it’s not unusual to see numerous establishments where ski-poles are replaced by poles of the sturdier dancing variety, draped with scantily clad ladies with not a thermal vest in sight. I’ve given up writing letters of complaint about this particular après-ski activity in a family resort and I now keep a blind eye firmly turned above tightly pursed lips.

It’s the third time Hubby and myself have exposed our ageing, feeble bodies to such intense exercise and whilst Hubby got the hang of skiing fairly swiftly; I have no aptitude whatsoever although I have mastered the art of falling down.

Bright and early on the first day of our weeklong torture, Hubby wandered off to the ski lift along with twelve other advanced Intermediate level skiers. So that Chloe and I would be together in a Beginners group, I told a porky-pie and said this was my first time skiing. First-timer Ella joined a group of English children and had a fantastic time trundling around the mountains on miniature skis permanently wedged in the good old snow-plough position. In fact, Ella beat Chloe and I to the top of the mountain as we were kept safely down below on the nursery slopes for three days and the fledgling nursery group even had the temerity of tackling a blue run a day before the grown-ups were allowed the same honour. That will teach me to lie.

Chloe was hoping we would have a hunky male instructor, but her luck ran out when we were handed into the care of a highly competent woman who kept a straight face when she was inundated with responses after asking if any of the group had health problems. It was hard to hide our dismay when several members of the group began to detail a variety of medical problems that included diabetes, high blood pressure, asthma, a bad back and fear of heights. Ignoring our own defects, we wondered what on earth possessed this unhealthy lot to take up skiing. I reassured Chloe that unfit people generally drop out after two days but even I was amazed when one of the group gave up after 30 minutes, 15 of which were spent walking to the nursery slopes – definitely a contender for the Guinness Book of Records. The unfortunate lady suffered high blood pressure and despite taking her medication, every time she bent to sort out her skis, she had a dizzy spell and collapsed. Selfishly, it was good news for the group as we would have ended up carrying the poor woman around the mountain, but it was bad news for her husband as it meant she spent the rest of the holiday pampering herself in the hotel’s beauty parlour having massages, hair and nail treatments. On reflection, I think we missed a trick here!

I’m ashamed to own up to this, but it took almost two days before my lie was discovered and this was not because it was obvious that I could ski with style, but was entirely down to the fact that I was recognised by the poor Instructor who had had the misfortune to carry me all over the slopes the first time we skidded into Borovets – obviously, I made an impression….“Anna darlink, you stay with me” was the wearisome and oft quoted phrase at that time.

As a complete novice, Chloe put me to shame when she turned out to have a natural ability to fly fearlessly down the slopes on two thin strips of metal. No one believed me when I bragged proudly that Chloe took after me but then I guess I was always quivering with fear with a tendency to wobble down the slopes in a rather ugly fashion.

Actually, I am proud to say that I have moved on from the easy-peasy Green slopes and managed to slide upright all the way down the mountain on a Blue slope - twice. Clever-clogs Chloe managed to ski down the blue runs at least four times, but then she is a lot younger than I and she managed to avoid the lure of gravity on steep turns.

Ella had a great week and made a host of new friends although Hubby and I left it to her mother to answer the question “Mummy, why are there pictures of naked ladies on all the trees?”.

I don’t twitch very often but I was certainly twitching after taking part in the recent Bird Watch survey. My ornithological skills are extremely limited although I do know that magpies are the confidently brazen black and white fellows who noisily dominate the garden whilst pigeons are generally the chubby grey chaps who waddle through the grass on our uncut lawn. It seemed an easy thing to do; just spend an hour taking note of the species and numbers of birds landing/feeding in the garden; The News even printed pictures and listed varieties which was helpful to a novice twitcher like myself. With pen poised, I perched by the kitchen window and kept an eagle-eye on the garden. Guess what…..not a single bird landed! I roped my other half in on the act just in case birds flocked to the garden when I left my post but, no, we were living in a bird-free zone. Over the whole weekend just one solitary blackbird took time out from his busy flight schedule to briefly rest on the fence before soaring off again.

The lack of birds worried me so much that I nipped upstairs to see how many birds were flitting in and out of our next door neighbour’s garden but there was not a single bird to be seen there either which gave mild solace to my wounded pride. Fancy not even having a pigeon or magpie drop in, it’s shameful isn’t it? I have had bird feeders hanging from skeletal trees and shrubs for several months and have to say that they remain untouched although if someone else is offering Harrod’s deluxe bird seed compared to the Asda specials in our bijou bird restaurant, I don’t think I’d be tempted to have a nibble either.

Perhaps the lack of birds was down to the fact that the neighbourhood ginger tom had terrorized the bird population into declaring our garden out-of-bounds or it may be that the bird population got wind of the survey so they cleared off somewhere warmer for a bit of privacy over the weekend. Either way, I’m not going to bother with any more wildlife surveys they’re not good for my nerves.

December has blown in on the back of a chill wind and Christmas decorations are going up faster than the mercury is dropping in the thermometer.

On the decoration front, I’m doing well this year as the dog-eared boxes were heaved down from the loft as soon as the calendar announced the Advent was upon us. Actually doing something with the contents before Father Christmas harnesses Rudolph to his sleigh is usually a problem for me.  Despite the fact that Christmas has been building to a climax since August, I’m never quite ready to unpack our bedraggled assortment of decorations as I’m usually in Christmas-present-shopping-mode and need a breather before I can launch myself into a Christmas-decorating-frame-of-mind.

The days of placing a brightly baubled, but solitary, tree in the window underneath home-made paper chains, stretched in an ‘X’ formation across the lounge ceiling, have long since passed, as has the 80s trend for large, boldly coloured foil garlands strewn across every inch of heavily artexed surface. Decorating, or dressing the house for Christmas is now an art-form in which the Santa’s Grotto effect is considered to be not quite the thing. Oddly enough, the ‘Tasteful Guide to Christmas Decorations’ does not apply outside. Instead, many people happily ignore the call to conserve energy, throw restraint to the wind and swathe the exterior of their homes with a chain-mail of multi-coloured dazzling lights which flash and flicker frenetically throughout the night like a frenzied Edna Everidge on Speed.

No matter where one stands on the etiquette of tasteful exterior decorating, there’s no denying that the colourful glow on a cold, dark night brings a glimmer of a smile to even the most doleful of souls. Who needs to take children to overpriced seasonal events when a tour of the local neighbourhood illuminations provides them with a scene of wonder and delight?

Getting back to the boxes, I have actually opened them and dusted the cobwebs of the top layer. The battered 15-year old artificial Christmas tree was duly assembled and then promptly snapped in half and died of brittle stem disease amidst a pile of synthetic pine needles. No amount of duck tape could bring it back to life so it was despatched to the recycling centre and a newer, larger model installed in its place.

To date, I’ve made a half-hearted effort at decorating the house but after listening to my nine-year old grand-daughter complaining that their own tasteful but minimalistic decorations were not as much fun as those of her cousin’s, whose house apparently has absolutely “loads and loads of really cool, fun decorations”; I just might dig a little deeper into the boxes, pull everything out, including the tacky foil garlands and put the whole lot up.

My Mother-in-Law, I’ll call her Molly, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease about four years ago. The diagnosis was not a surprise as we had long been aware that all was not well and had begun to suspect that senile dementia, or something of that nature, was the cause of Molly’s changing behaviour.

Molly was always reserved, but self-assured and confident in familiar surroundings. Widowed in her early-sixties, Molly did not have any particular hobbies or interests and did not seek the company of friends, in fact, Molly was traditionally content with life within the bosom of her family.

The disease took hold quietly and without fuss. Occasional bouts of absent-minded forgetfulness became more common and, over time, developed into a continual cycle of forgetful anxiety. In the early days, the anxiety was more problematic than the forgetfulness. A gentle trip out would suddenly turn into chaos when something unforeseen triggered off a panic attack of mammoth proportions resulting in the calling of an ambulance. Understandably, after a couple of these episodes the younger family members were reluctant to take Molly out unless we also came along. Family outings became shorter and fewer which sadly added to Molly’s increased feeling of isolation.

Gradually, Molly’s grasp on reality was vague and tenuous. Her daily routines were carried out in a blurred fuzziness of thought in which everyday actions became tasks of mammoth proportions. Walking and doing the dishes became, and still are, obsessive compulsions which provide Molly with some sense of normality. Whilst we have long grown used to replacing broken glassware and chipped china, we worry constantly about Molly’s ability to cross the road safely. How and at what point we will curtail this particular pleasure of Molly’s is yet to be resolved.

If one has a weird sense of humour, there is a funny side. Last year we came home to find all the downstairs plugs unplugged and various LCDs flashing uncontrollably. A rumbling or two of thunder had sent Molly into Health and Safety mode and without concern for her own safety, she rushed over to our house to unplug everything. The sad thing this year is that even if Molly had the compulsion to carry out the same act, within an hour or so, Molly would have no recollection of the event.

There have been many times when Molly has tried desperately to cling on to every fleeting memory, but the thoughts fly quickly out of her mental reach, evading her fragile grasp like blossom blowing away in a strong breeze.

Conversations are now short and repetitive to the point that it is becoming extremely hard not to grimace after being asked the same question for the umpteenth time. It has taken a while, but we have now realised that Molly is less anxious if we don’t ask her any direct questions other than “would you like a cup of tea”. Direct questions tend to make Molly anxious and the same query will elicit several different responses in a short time. Basically, Molly will say whatever comes to mind just to keep us happy and her responses often bear little or no relation to fact.

The time has long passed since Molly could let us know her wishes as to her preferred choice of health care and there are some difficult decisions to be made for Molly’s continued well-being.

At this moment in time, it’s as if Molly has paused to rest after walking down a very long, dark corridor. Suffused with anxiety and uncertainty, Molly is gazing blankly at an unfamiliar door. There is absolutely no doubt that the door will open and Molly will step over the threshold into a place where we cannot join her.

It is all very sad. Sad for Molly and soul-destroying for the family who love and cherish her.