Thanks to Brenda Warren for setting the Sunday Whirl every week.
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The surroundings were grim, but Sally acquiesced with poise.
Some visitors would groan with disgust at dribble running down chins as they could not fail to inhale the stale smell of old cabbage and urine.
She felt pity for the old man lost in the big chair with a shawl round his shoulders and a blanket round his legs. It would be so easy to bawl her eyes out, lament at what was rather than what is, how inevitably dementia had taken hold.
With a careful shrug, she stepped forward to ruffle the old man’s sparse hair, taking the spoon gently from the tired nurse’s hands.
‘Hi Granfer,’ she said, and was greeted with a fleeting smile and sparkle in the grey rheumy eyes.
‘Sal,’ he said.
It was enough, and he ate.