Just waiting for the president

I hardly recognised the place
bowls of boiled sweets
fresh flowers and open doors
a novel fifties corner
dreamt up by a colourful volunteer
to celebrate ye olde tea shoppe
men with chains round their necks
laughing at their own jokes
as women betrayed themselves
hiding clenched fists,
untouchable
armed with cups of tea
and enough gall to drive a shiver
down your spine.

Mum ambled by oblivious to me
as I watched the slippery soap,
some days she knows me
some days not
but that’s OK.

I took hold of her hand
and we walked down the corridor
for the thousandth time
but everything was different,
new furnishings
polished windows
little mirrored angel ornaments
screwed to the walls
red yellow and purple petals
scattered along the window sills
staff every three foot.

I’d been warned by the deputy
On my way out a few days back
after joking with Mia
that she was texting her boyfriend
how she had no knickers on
and couldn’t wait to get home.
‘Best behaviour, Richard..,’
deputy dawg had muttered
her brows lifted
her head tilted
her eyes fixed.

Yes, this was an important day for the care-home,
the health secretary doesn’t visit every day.

Clusters of suited office-gentry
county councillors
select-committee fodder
deep in thought
for the photographer
massaging chins
and up for the fight,
but they know there’s more write-off money
in care than ever before.
How dirty could such a beautiful word
as care become?

I could hear some of the conversation
how they were making in-roads, oh yes
changing things about in quiet respect of targets
finding new ways to make tea more cost-effectively
making weekday appointments
with hairdressers and financial advisers.

When I caught the eye of one
particularly ambitious half-attractive woman in red heels
I smiled handsomely
but she seemed to have that air of coy lobbyism
of deep controlled paranoia
of a bottle-and-a half at night
and as I waited for her discomfort
in a returning smile
she turned away just in time
not to blush.
I liked looking at her.

When my sister arrived
we guided Mum to sit down
in the newly carpeted day-room.

On my sister’s advice
I went to get Mum some food
from the table of untouched
appetisers and finger-sandwiches
made in hell
and decided that if it wasn’t good enough for them
it certainly wasn’t good enough for Mum
discarding the plastic plate
on top of a pile of ice-cold vol au vents.

‘I’m going when he comes,’
I said to my sister.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay?’

Moments later
I heard a hush over the clanking of brass
as if Father Christmas had arrived.

As I turned to look through the round window
that gave onto the corridor
I saw a clump of brown hair
belonging to the man
who should have stood down
after fixing the News Corp scam to buy Sky,
only to be shunted across to health
where scandal is qualified as normal procedure
and its acceptance is agreed.
What better position for a man
who could stand up to the press
and show not an ounce of merciless guilt?

Barely a year ago
and yet no one even mentioned
the crime he had committed
for democracy.

Part of me yearned to be normal for a day
desperately hoping that I might accept this man
to converse in a respectable way
and conjure purposeful goodwill
but as I stood up and watched his back
his youthful neckline and slender frame
I felt sick to the stomach.

‘He looks like a bloody schoolboy!’ I said
turning to see if I’d ruined the moment
for the beady-eyed smiling mob
whose only mission was to be next to him
and to take a little piece of him
back to their squadron.

Defeated
I kissed Mum on the cheek
and wiggled her nose to say goodbye.
As I walked out of the day-room
there he was
the beefy big potatoes
minus the shades
watching me by the door
like in the films.

He had a staff-badge on
but I’d never seen him before.
I wanted to say
‘you lookin’ at me?’ like Travis
but he’d have probably just nodded
and said ‘just waiting for the president’
so I didn’t bother.

‘Why are you leaving? He’s only just arrived,’
said Mia at the front door.
‘Exactly.’

I spent the whole weekend at home
depressed, morose, bleak,
mourning the 1000th day
of my children’s absence from my life
wondering what they were doing
trying to picture them
with my eyes shut tight
imagining that a drink might help
weighing up the mind-numbing properties of dope
and the forthcoming meeting at Cheltenham.

.