The Latecomer

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(just for a joke) …

Although it’s completely deliberate, night after night, I loathe shitting in bed. Debasing myself like this is the most difficult consequence of the somewhat insane path I’ve taken late in life. But holding back in my sleep could only arouse the suspicions of my carers. If I want to continue to play the role of a senile old man, I have no choice but to regularly soil my nappies. Because that’s what this is: a role. I am nowhere near as demented as those around me believe!

The acid in my urine has started to eat away at my buttocks, which is not the most pleasant sensation I’ve experienced. The salves and ointments Aisha and Curvy Cora smear between my cheeks while swooning over the tasty body of the Kukident adhesive cream rep, who comes to this home to peddle his wares, provide no relief at all. But as I’ve said, under no circumstances can I cut incontinence from my script. Just imagine what would happen if they suddenly discovered that for several months now I’ve been successfully feigning dementia! That for weeks and weeks on end I’ve been babbling nonsense or wobbling apathetically in my chair when really I am still quite capable, for example, of explaining things like contemporary political issues. The health service would feel robbed and take me to court. The staff, especially the female staff of Winterlight Geriatric Care, would feel exploited, as if their integrity has been compromised, and happily bash my brains in. The pity my children still manage to feel for me would be transformed into boundless shame. And my wife (the bitch), assuming she survives me (and she will), would scatter enormous amounts of bird feed over my grave to keep the pigeons shitting on my memory.

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