Born to care?

Friends who are 'carers' for their elderly relatives will be pleased to learn that I'm getting a touch of the treatment they all too often get from those they look after. And it's an eye-opener.

I volunteer from time to time with Contact the Elderly. It's a great charity, set up to try to combat the loneliness of old age by including the very elderly in a range of social events. Yesterday, I agreed to pick up two elderly ladies and drive them to afternoon tea in a house shared by another eight elderly people, looked after by two wonderful carers.

I know my two ladies quite well now. One is very funny, chatty and loves her outings. She's quite a reader and also keeps herself up to date with current events via the TV. She walks with a stick and is not always too steady on her feet, so I always give her my arm to the car and put her in the front passenger seat. We have rare blethers as I drive.

I know the other lady does not like this. There's absolutely nothing wrong with her mobility and her health seems fine so she goes in the back of the car. She's deaf and it seems she won't wear her hearing aid. She ignores everything I tell her. So when I'm helping her into the car, I say: 'Put your bum onto the seat first and I'll help you to swing your legs round.' No, no, not her. She complains about how dark it is (it's broad daylight) and how she can't see where the seat is. We need a torch, she says. I tell her we don't have a torch (we've had this conversation a few times already this year) but we'll be fine: I'll help her and make sure nothing happens to her. Finally, I get her into the car. Now for the seatbelt. I know this is going to be traumatic (it has been every time I've picked her up). I pull the seatbelt out, pass it across her middle and put the buckle in her hand. I tell her to hold on to it while I go round the other side of the car and plug in the buckle. By the time I've gone round the car, she has somehow managed to pass the seatbelt round the back of her head, losing hold of the buckle in the process. I go back to her side of the car and we start again. I say: 'Hold onto the buckle and don't move.' I can hear myself getting sharp. I can also hear the lady in the front laughing - she too has been through before - often.

Eventually we get to the house we're visiting. I always leave plenty time for the loading and unloading of the car. I take the lady with the stick up the ramp first and hand her over to the carer on duty at the door. I go back for the second lady. I've told her I'll be back for her and to stay in the car because it's pouring rain. No, she's out of the car and wandering away from the ramp towards the steps. 'There's steps, there's steps!' she tells me. 'I'll not manage the steps.' I reassure her and guide her to the ramp. Again, she complains it's dark and she can't see where she's going. Every few yards, she stops dead and says nervously: 'Are there any more steps?' 'No steps,' I say. 'No steps at all!' Finally, we get into the house.

I deliver her to a seat in the conservatory next to the Christmas tree. The carers serve sherry and I notice she has two glasses. When I look over, she's talking quite happily to the person next to her. What was that about being deaf?

An hour later, our hostesses serve afternoon tea. Both my ladies eat well: sandwiches, vol-au-vents, wee sausage rolls, mince pies, mini eclairs, washed down by plenty of tea. As we're helping to clear away the tea things, one of the carers tells me one of my ladies is getting agitated about making sure she's home in time for her evening meal which is served at 5pm. Yes, it's the 'deaf' lady, of course. I remind her I've spoken to the kitchen staff in her sheltered housing block and they'll plate her meal and keep it till she gets there. She frets loudly to everyone around her for the rest of the afternoon.

Just after 5, we go through the steps on the ramp and the getting in the car and the putting on of the seatbelt performance in reverse. This time the rain is torrential and I'm soaked from dashing round the car in pursuit of the seatbelt buckle. I drop the ladies off. It's only been four hours and I'm knackered.

I really want to tell the 'deaf' lady she's a whiny old git. But I know the complaining is pure attention seeking and she does it because she's lonely. But dear reader, if you're a full-time - or even a part-time - carer, I take my hat off to you - chapeau!