The Community Hospital

She arrived at Witney Community Hospital yesterday morning. We arrived there in the evening and found her deranged. We've seen her deranged before, but this seemed more complete and final somehow. She found it difficult to focus on either of us and spoke drivel non-stop, but every now and again focussed on thin air, lit up and said 'Oh, hello!' I see dead people. . .

She's in a bay shared by three other ladies, each of them friendly enough if a bit withdrawn. The little old lady all shrunken and toothless in the next bed was the only one who had any conversation. You have to keep reminding yourself that this person has a past, was once a lively, robust woman. As for our little crone, she fought hard not to eat, but we got some icecream down her, the inside of a custard tart and half a jam sandwich. The food at Witney is incomparably better than at the JR, and when we looked at the menu card filled in for the next day, we couldn't have done it better ourselves.

The staff nurse introduced himself as John. He's a scouser and sounds just like Derek Acorah - the psychic in 'Most Haunted'. I hear dead people. . .. He's a bundle of jokes and laughter and spent a lot of time with us trying to get to know Mum better. Now, that's how to do it. Are you listening, JR? The staff were really concerned about her lost glasses. The JR had insisted it would be best to get an optician to see her once she was back home; she wasn't back home for two months, and then the optician was away for a fortnight. The appointment is next week. They were concerned and they were helpful. I know exactly what to do now.

God bless community hospitals, and let's curse those buffoons dedicated to their demise, convinced that health provision on an industrial scale is the best way forward.