It’s been a while since she’s trodden the hallowed halls and chambers of casa Strachan but, after six and a half weeks of being hospital in situ, my mum is scheduled to soon return to her home of 32 years.
My maternal forebear returning to what will become a newly adapted residence to cater for mobility issues, consequential of a stroke suffered at the beginning of February. Her bedroom now sited downstairs; shortly to be augmented by the construction of a ground floor wet room.
Friends and family have raised concerns that, with the exception of personal care provision, on her return I’ll become Maggie’s full-time carer. Well-meaning individuals who’re concerned I will go “mental” if I don’t receive occasional respite from the role…… Bearing in mind yours truly already possesses a habitually random mind, I resisted inquiring how anyone would notice any cognitive deterioration on my part.
However, I’m not unduly worried about the challenges my new role brings. After all, with the first floor now only being accessible to me, while mum was indisposed, I’ve converted an upstairs room into a lap dancing club. A move I’m hoping will inject a degree of recuperative brio into what’ll become yours truly’s tying new existence.
The lap dances will be undertaken with full social distancing protocols in place, including contactless payments and dancers wearing face masks.
The latter not introduced as a coronavirus precaution; moreover, that the lasses I’ve employed possess visages akin to a clumsy beekeeper….. Yes, I know that was an ignoble, misogynistic observation, casting me in a poor light…. As I’ve written before, though, I really do need to resist subscribing to relationship guidance from ‘Carry On’ movies.
Seriously, though, I’m by no stretch of the imagination a misogynist. I’ve the utmost respect for women, in particular female right lobbyists. Not being an oil painting myself, I know only too well that beauty is only skin deep. Although if that’s the case, to borrow from Les Dawson, in stating the lap dancing girls working for me must’ve been born inside out…… Damn, I just can’t help myself, can I?!
Anyhow, hopefully the family matriarch will be back in the bosom of her brood within the next forty eight hours, or two days; whichever is the quickest. Her clan and friends have missed her desperately, and hope returning to familiar surroundings will counter the confusion exhibited while hospital in situ.
Quite clearly, I’ve not turned an upstairs room in my mother’s house into a lap dancing club….. Bloody hell, have you seen the rates I’d have to pay to open up a business like that. Not to mention the complaints and hate mail from neighbours the move would garnish. Subsequently, I’ll need to explore other avenues of pleasure to counter the strain of being a carer.
In all seriousness, I am thinking about making one of the rooms upstairs into an office. Treating myself to a new desk and an easy chair, which’d be a significantly more comfortable writing environment than the current kitchen table option, or with my laptop balancing on the arm of the sofa.
As far as I’m concerned, converting one of these chambers into a writing cave usurps the shallower option of a lap dance venue conversion hands down. This aspirational room containing a bookcase stacked with my self-published tomes, vinyl albums, along with walls bearing my sporting memorabilia, both personal and of my childhood football/cricket heroes….. Who knows, maybe somewhere down the line I’ll get around to adopting that chamber configuration.
Right, I’m going to conclude this narrative, I need to undertake a weekly comestible shop prior to my carer role commencing in a day or two….. Enjoy your day!