One of the great things about the snow was it gave us an excuse not to go visit Ailz's parents. I feel bad complaining about a sick man, but if I don't complain the anger works inwards and chokes me. Old people should have hobbies. Hobbies take you out of yourself. As it is, he has nothing to think about or talk about except his maladies and medications- and scarcely any mood except self pity. His one resource is to buy things- and make a drama out of it. Last month it was the bed (they bought a whole new bed because the old one had a broken drawer). Now it's a second wheelchair. I see these maggots of his as a ploy to get the rest of us worked up into an Eric-centred fuss. If he were capable of holding a conversation about Whitney Houston or Manchester United's chances in the cup or stamp collecting or anything but his sweet, suffering self, I would resent it less- or maybe not resent it at all.
I have copious experience with the old and ill- and I know they're not all like this. If I get like this, please put me in an care home and abandon me there.