interesting prescription

Maude is sitting hunched and watchful in her seat like some kind of geriatric astronaut. The armchair, an ancient piece of furniture perfectly moulded to her shape, has all the necessaries to hand – cup and saucer, Tupperware of biscuits, box of tissues, emollients, blister packs, inhalers and eye drops, remote control and TV guide – heaped around her on a put-you-up table and breakfast stand, her puffy legs propped up on a battered old brown leather pouffe.
‘Wait a minute,’ she pants. ‘Just a minute.’
‘You’re breathing’s bad today, Maude.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
‘And the carer says you’re not really yourself.’
‘I’m what?’
‘Not really yourself?’
‘Well who am I then?’
‘A bit confused.’
‘I’m not going to hospital.’
I stand up again.
‘She’s pretty clear about it.’
The carer, a vigorously empathetic woman in red ski pants and a fried mass of crimped, crow-black hair, squats down in my place. She rubs Maude on the arm.
‘Come on chuck,’ she says. ‘We’re worried about you.’ But she sneaks a look back up at me. ‘Everyone but the son. What a piece of work.’
‘I’m not going to hospital,’ says Maude, levitating with outrage. ‘You can’t make me.’
‘No. We’d be arrested for kidnap,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll get the doctor over instead. Maybe she can persuade you.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve just got to do the paperwork.’
Maude settles back into the chair again, and after a moment begins rooting through the piles of stuff around her.
‘What are you looking for, Maude?’
‘I want my bisexuals.’
‘Your what?’
‘I’m not signing till I’ve read it through properly, and I can’t read a thing without my bisexuals.’
The carer looks at me and smiles.
‘She’s not herself,’ she says.