Most people here are really, really nice. Unfortunately we have a few residents that are, well, bitches. They come in either gender, it's just a very apt description of their attidude. The Royale has more than its fair share of bitches. One of them is Mara, who will serve you an earful if her breakfast is not precisely on time. (I must remember to tell you more about her later.)
Another is Ted. Ted has caught the "I am Entitled" disease. He is Entitled to call the carers "honkies" (as in Hong Kong people, and he might as well call them chinks or chongs with that kind of racism), He is Entitled to have his food brought to him on a tray an hour after meal time, just because he cannot be bothered attending the dining room; he is Entitled to extra dessert "because the residents paid for it all, don't you know, girly" etc, etc etc. And Ted even uses the word a lot.
Ted is extremely proper and dignified (while busy calling Arabella a honkie), carries a handkerchief and walking stick all the time, puts his best suit on every Sunday and walks over to the church across the road, because he is a good Anglican (who calls Arabella a honkie, but not on Sundays). He writes letters with a fancy pen and listens to classical music on his "wireless" and it is certainly not a stereo, it's a wireless, thank you very much, and his father worked for His Master's Voice back in 1781 or something and he should most Certainly know.
It is Ted's Entitlement to 24 hour nursing care that I write about today. We have two carers on site during the days between 5am and 7pm. They do things like take lunch trays to people who unwell (as opposed to Ted who cannot be bothered). They also shower the amputee lady Doris, and maybe change a bandage for anyone who's recuperating from hospital. Then there are general things, like the fact that Lola will still be sitting in pyjamas at 1pm if nobody goes in at 11 and tells her it's time to dress for lunch. They also distribute all the prescriptions that residents' doctors have prescribed. Virtually every single dinner place has a small paper cup of tablets sitting there, belonging to the occupant, waiting to be swallowed with lunch.
The overnight carer, however, is asleep, not sitting and waiting for someone to buzz or call. As they get a bonus for each callout, it costs the village quite a lot - and annoys the tired carers, who are difficult to convince into doing that shift in the first place. The manager sent a letter to all residents, asking them not to "bother" the SLEEPING carers if it can wait till morning. (That kind of embarrassment works wonders.) From that point on, callouts rarely happened at all. Unfortunately the exception was Ted, who called them 5 or so times per night, almost every night.
Ted's nighttime urinary continence has been going downhill a bit. When he first experienced problems he was given a bunch of options. One was to do Kegel exercises to strengthen things - apparently he thought that was hogwash and refused. He was also advised to cut down coffee, not to drink alcohol after mid-afternoon, told to drink MORE water to practice and strengthen things - what a waste of time. He would refuse to drink anything but coffee at meals, and I saw him with a glass of red almost every evening in the study of his apartment. The doctor also tried, and failed, to have him limit his sugar intake. I mentioned the extra dessert here earlier, so that advice went down like a lead balloon. When he wasn't drinking coffee he was drinking Fanta, and I can't think of a soft drink with more sugar than that sticky, bladder-killing stuff.
And so, the result was he got worse, often wetting himself only an hour after going to bed. Each time he would call the carer to come and clean him up. He refused rubber sheets and he refused to wear an incontinence pad. Sometimes he would wake in time to get to the toilet, and then call the carer simply because he couldn't get back to sleep.
The carers' supervisor sought him one day and said that he ought to consider the incontinence pads and rubber sheets since he was really being a little unfair with the attention he was demanding, not to mention the fact that the carers had to be paid extra for each visit. And Ted replied, "Well, the 24hour care is a substantial part of the reason I purchased such an expensive piece of real estate. We do pay for it, you know, so we do have an entitlement to such care." And that is exactly how he speaks, too. Incredibly refined.
But Celia was having none of this. Celia is one of the loveliest bosses I've ever had, but she is so incredibly businesslike. Everyone trusts her. There is just something about her confidence that people know she can deal with just about anything.
Celia called Ted into the office. "Ted, sit down. We've got a bit of a problem and perhaps you and I can sort it out. The supervisor tells me that the poor carers are being called out half a dozen times a night to assist you. Is this right?"
Ted, amazingly, wasn't ashamed to admit it was true. "Unfortunately, Celia, I've taken to having accidents throughout the night, and I do need assistance to tidy up when it happens, so yes, I've been buzzing the girls when it happens." Celia then asked why he refused the options offered to him, and he replied that he felt it below his dignity, and that he was entitled to refuse such ghastly things.
"Well Ted," Celia said, readying the punch, "we are a self-care facility here, and it's been suggested that someone unable to care for themselves overnight might require a more... substantial level of care, perhaps a nursing home."
Bang. I cannot believe she could say that. She can't actually ask anyone to leave and it's almost beyond belief that she played that card. But my aunt swears it's true. And Ted just sat there flabbergasted, realising his assertiveness had boxed him straight into a corner from which there was only one way out.
"I've had a chat to the nurse," Celia was saying, and she went on to describe Ted's Last Hope, spelling out the details and ending with, "...maybe it'd give you a good nights' sleep and we'd all be a bit happier, what do you think? Will you give it a go?" And he agreed, since there was little other option.
So I was working in the kitchen that day, when the phone rang and the supervisor was on the line wanting to talk with Preethi, one of the carers. And since the phone is in the kitchen there are no private conversations. Preethi did a lot of listening, a lot of exclamations of surprise, a bit of a laugh, and I was dying to know what was so funny. Preethi is loud, outgoing and just great fun all round. "The supervisor will be at work tomorrow," she said, "and wanted to ask me how to fit a Uridom. She needs to teach Caroline how to do it."
The first thing I asked is what a Uridom is, since I'm just a lowly kitchenhand and don't know what any of the medical contraptions are. It's what it sounds like. It's a condom-shaped thing with a tube attached to the bottom, which leads to a bag, and it's to catch urine for people with continence problems. Now you see, that isn't especially funny, even when you consider that silly old Ted deserved to have to wear one. Ok, that was funny, but only about him having to need help to fit it.
But the plot thickens. Consider that Caroline is one of the mice here. Tiny little thing that giggles and blushes a huge amount and who was too embarrassed to shower the men in her first week at the place. She, one of the honkies he hates, is now going to have to be face-to-face with Ted's penis, to fit this thing. Damn, wouldn't you like to have a microphone in there, just to find out whether he can insult her while she is busy staring at his penis?
BUT WAIT - THERE'S MORE. No, not a free set of steak knives. Better than that. He has to be erect while it is put on. I told you it got better. Preethi commented that she just "marches straight in, tells him he's got five minutes to get himself hard, and then it will be time for the Uridom" then leaves, and that he does as she asks. I want to know what Caroline says to him. "Um, mister, um, please can you please get... up please?" And I can just imagine Ted staring at her in disbelief. I don't really want to think about Ted masturbating to erection, but it would be just too funny not to know whether she left the room or helped him. Actually, no, I don't think I want to know either way. Some things are just never meant to be known.
Showing posts with label Celia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Celia. Show all posts
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Bert has gatecrashers
Like any part of society, this place is made up of all kinds of personalities. There is Elsie, who thinks the world of everyone and treats everyone as if they were her own treasured children. Lola is always off in lollipop land, but manages to look serious every hour of the day, and fools a lot of people into thinking she's all there in the head (and she's definitely not). Ransa is always on the go, studying Economics three days a week "because it is interesting" and digging the gardens with an axe far too heavy for me to lift. She is one of the people still healthy in mind, as most here are. Another one is Bert (or I thought he was, until I heard this story).
I truly like Bert and he is quite young, perhaps late 50s. But he's a bit weird. He lives in the Courtyard, and is always exceedingly polite. He will arrive for dinner, stand beside his seat, cock his head sideways to look at you in a funny manner, pause for a painfully long moment, then thank you for bringing his food, pause again, then sit down. The other residents tolerate him but it's obvious they find him as "unusual" as the staff do.
We have always considered him one of the healthiest ones here. He's one of the ones who always brings his own trays back from breakfast. He goes out and does his own shopping, he goes to bowls, he has a beer at the club with the other people his age. He is just particularly private and independent while here at home. (Consider that most of the other residents accept and even expect the carers and other staff to stroll into their flats without invitation as if it's a serviced hotel, and it might be more apparent why a very private person sticks out around here.)
I've no idea what is physically wrong with him. Perhaps it is Parkinson's. I don't see him shake or have trouble with his motor functions, but he has a mannerism about him that suggests he is always, always cautious and worried about falling. A few of them are like that. It only takes one broken wrist to remember to slow down and be careful where you step.
In any case, he is on new medication for whatever it is that ails him. And it causes hallucinations. He came into my aunt's office one day to speak with the manager. Celia was on annual leave, so my aunt offered to try to help. "It's the family that have moved into my flat," he said. "I'm really not happy about it."
My aunt just stared at him. Bert lives alone, like almost all the residents here. But Bert wasn't finished. "They've rearranged my things. I found my own clothes on the floor because they used my drawers. And I am missing my peanut butter. Is it here? Maybe I left it on my breakfast tray. I need it back, it was a brand new jar."
After a moment of tense silence, Bert was the one to speak again. "You don't believe me, do you?"
How can anyone answer that question, when it is asked by someone who you used to think had nothing wrong with their brain?
My aunt looked at him carefully. "If I lived here," she asked, "and I came to you and told you a strange family had moved their things into my flat, would you believe me?" She said that Bert just stood there for a few minutes, without answering the question, and then apparently made up his mind.
"I'm going to go and ask the kitchen if they've seen my peanut butter," he told her determinedly. "And then I'm going to tell that family to move out."
I truly like Bert and he is quite young, perhaps late 50s. But he's a bit weird. He lives in the Courtyard, and is always exceedingly polite. He will arrive for dinner, stand beside his seat, cock his head sideways to look at you in a funny manner, pause for a painfully long moment, then thank you for bringing his food, pause again, then sit down. The other residents tolerate him but it's obvious they find him as "unusual" as the staff do.
We have always considered him one of the healthiest ones here. He's one of the ones who always brings his own trays back from breakfast. He goes out and does his own shopping, he goes to bowls, he has a beer at the club with the other people his age. He is just particularly private and independent while here at home. (Consider that most of the other residents accept and even expect the carers and other staff to stroll into their flats without invitation as if it's a serviced hotel, and it might be more apparent why a very private person sticks out around here.)
I've no idea what is physically wrong with him. Perhaps it is Parkinson's. I don't see him shake or have trouble with his motor functions, but he has a mannerism about him that suggests he is always, always cautious and worried about falling. A few of them are like that. It only takes one broken wrist to remember to slow down and be careful where you step.
In any case, he is on new medication for whatever it is that ails him. And it causes hallucinations. He came into my aunt's office one day to speak with the manager. Celia was on annual leave, so my aunt offered to try to help. "It's the family that have moved into my flat," he said. "I'm really not happy about it."
My aunt just stared at him. Bert lives alone, like almost all the residents here. But Bert wasn't finished. "They've rearranged my things. I found my own clothes on the floor because they used my drawers. And I am missing my peanut butter. Is it here? Maybe I left it on my breakfast tray. I need it back, it was a brand new jar."
After a moment of tense silence, Bert was the one to speak again. "You don't believe me, do you?"
How can anyone answer that question, when it is asked by someone who you used to think had nothing wrong with their brain?
My aunt looked at him carefully. "If I lived here," she asked, "and I came to you and told you a strange family had moved their things into my flat, would you believe me?" She said that Bert just stood there for a few minutes, without answering the question, and then apparently made up his mind.
"I'm going to go and ask the kitchen if they've seen my peanut butter," he told her determinedly. "And then I'm going to tell that family to move out."
Movie day
Every Sunday afternoon the residents have a Movie Day. This is a major social event. It is also one of the few times that anyone ever uses the Royale's lounge room, as it's the biggest of the four lounges. The residents congregate there and they show a DVD on the big screen tv. The movies are usually golden oldies, but occasionally they show popular mild modern movies, say, The Bridges of Madison County or whatever. Then they have tea and coffee and something exciting, like chocolate biscuits or scones, etc. It's an action-packed afternoon.
This anecdote I wasn't actually present for. It was related to me by Carlotta, who is a Tongan lady who works with me in the kitchen. Carlotta is reliability personified. She's worked there for fifteen years and all the residents love her. She knows what she's doing and nothing bothers her. She is also built like a professional weightlifter.
Apparently this Sunday, Marjorie took it upon herself to attend the movie. I'm not sure that she usually does, considering she'd have been just as happy alone in the other lounge, but I'm guessing one of the carers encouraged her to go. Marjorie has a walking frame (Zimmer) that I refer to as her car. She has told me emphatically several times that she can't walk without it. Indeed, she is a large heavy-set lady who is usually quite unsteady on her feet. A couple of times she's forgotten to bring it to dinner and I've had to rescue her as she's hung onto the doorway of the dining room. She's heavy, all right. It feels rather bizarre holding the arm of someone that you know you can never possibly stop from falling if they actually stumble.
The Royale building has a huge wrap-around verandah at the front, and about 15 stairs leading to its grand threshhold. Yes, you guessed it, Marjorie tried to take her walker up those stairs. The upshot of it is she got all the way to the top with the walker, but then tripped up the last couple of stairs, and fell forwards scraping her shins badly and ending in a heap on the verandah. Arabella and Caroline, two of the personal carers, found her there as they were bringing some of the other residents to the movie.
Arabella and Caroline are both of Chinese background and are studying here on student visas. That's common to almost every single carer: they are all from overseas, all under 21, and all students. Putting it into more accurate terms, Australians are lazy snobs and do not want to work in a service job. Cry foul all you like, it's the truth. There are 3 kitchen staff who are Australian (I'm the first) and the other two are semi-retired women in their 50s. Every time Celia has advertised for staff she has Chinese, Korean, and Indian people apply, and nobody else. Anyway, Arabella and Caroline are both tiny diminutive scraps of humanity. Truly lovely girls with hearts of gold, but a fresh breeze would blow them over. So they heaved and tugged and pulled, but there was no way on earth the two of them could get poor Marjorie to her feet, even when Marjorie was trying to help.
(I wish I'd been there just to see those two girls attempt to get her off the floor. It would have been hilarious.)
So as Marjorie sat there marooned on the verandah, one of them ran to get Carlotta to help. Even with Carlotta and her strong arms it was proving a difficult task. Carlotta said, "Why don't we swing her legs around and onto the second step, so that we can help her up that way?"
So they did that, but as they tried to help Marjorie up she started yelling. "I'm not going down there!" she screamed. "I want to go and see the movie! You can't make me go back down there! My walker is up here! I'm going this way!" and the woman who could not get herself off the floor used surprising strength to stop them spinning her around towards the stairs.
Ever tried reasoning with a 2 year old having a tantrum? I don't think this would have been far off. Marjorie told me it took them another fifteen minutes to calm her down and get her to cooperate. The movie was delayed. I've no idea whether Marjorie even knew what it was about, let alone enjoyed her day.
Marjorie's now showing everyone her battle scars. "I had a heavy fall yesterday!" she exclaims to anyone who'll listen, lifting her pants leg to reveal an assortment of bandages and sticking plasters. I made the mistake of replying, "Oh, you poor thing," when she told me... I was greeted with a furious, "I'M NOT POOR! I'M MRS SANDERS!!"
...Uh... yes. Of course.
This anecdote I wasn't actually present for. It was related to me by Carlotta, who is a Tongan lady who works with me in the kitchen. Carlotta is reliability personified. She's worked there for fifteen years and all the residents love her. She knows what she's doing and nothing bothers her. She is also built like a professional weightlifter.
Apparently this Sunday, Marjorie took it upon herself to attend the movie. I'm not sure that she usually does, considering she'd have been just as happy alone in the other lounge, but I'm guessing one of the carers encouraged her to go. Marjorie has a walking frame (Zimmer) that I refer to as her car. She has told me emphatically several times that she can't walk without it. Indeed, she is a large heavy-set lady who is usually quite unsteady on her feet. A couple of times she's forgotten to bring it to dinner and I've had to rescue her as she's hung onto the doorway of the dining room. She's heavy, all right. It feels rather bizarre holding the arm of someone that you know you can never possibly stop from falling if they actually stumble.
The Royale building has a huge wrap-around verandah at the front, and about 15 stairs leading to its grand threshhold. Yes, you guessed it, Marjorie tried to take her walker up those stairs. The upshot of it is she got all the way to the top with the walker, but then tripped up the last couple of stairs, and fell forwards scraping her shins badly and ending in a heap on the verandah. Arabella and Caroline, two of the personal carers, found her there as they were bringing some of the other residents to the movie.
Arabella and Caroline are both of Chinese background and are studying here on student visas. That's common to almost every single carer: they are all from overseas, all under 21, and all students. Putting it into more accurate terms, Australians are lazy snobs and do not want to work in a service job. Cry foul all you like, it's the truth. There are 3 kitchen staff who are Australian (I'm the first) and the other two are semi-retired women in their 50s. Every time Celia has advertised for staff she has Chinese, Korean, and Indian people apply, and nobody else. Anyway, Arabella and Caroline are both tiny diminutive scraps of humanity. Truly lovely girls with hearts of gold, but a fresh breeze would blow them over. So they heaved and tugged and pulled, but there was no way on earth the two of them could get poor Marjorie to her feet, even when Marjorie was trying to help.
(I wish I'd been there just to see those two girls attempt to get her off the floor. It would have been hilarious.)
So as Marjorie sat there marooned on the verandah, one of them ran to get Carlotta to help. Even with Carlotta and her strong arms it was proving a difficult task. Carlotta said, "Why don't we swing her legs around and onto the second step, so that we can help her up that way?"
So they did that, but as they tried to help Marjorie up she started yelling. "I'm not going down there!" she screamed. "I want to go and see the movie! You can't make me go back down there! My walker is up here! I'm going this way!" and the woman who could not get herself off the floor used surprising strength to stop them spinning her around towards the stairs.
Ever tried reasoning with a 2 year old having a tantrum? I don't think this would have been far off. Marjorie told me it took them another fifteen minutes to calm her down and get her to cooperate. The movie was delayed. I've no idea whether Marjorie even knew what it was about, let alone enjoyed her day.
Marjorie's now showing everyone her battle scars. "I had a heavy fall yesterday!" she exclaims to anyone who'll listen, lifting her pants leg to reveal an assortment of bandages and sticking plasters. I made the mistake of replying, "Oh, you poor thing," when she told me... I was greeted with a furious, "I'M NOT POOR! I'M MRS SANDERS!!"
...Uh... yes. Of course.
The firemen visit
I have learned...
...that a REALLY REALLY LOUD fire alarm is of little use when so many residents are deaf.
It went off this morning at about 8am. We all ran out to find out whether it actually was our property and yep, it was us. No info in the personal care room... no idea what to do really, so I called my aunt at home, who called the manager for me while I rang the fire brigade. I called them mainly to ask about evacuation (it's something of a pain in the backside when you have so many elderly residents, some of whom are unable to walk very far unassisted). The firey remarked with surprise that the back-to-base alarm had not activated at his end. (Disturbing, but it's because there wasn't one.) No smoke anywhere so we were pretty clueless as to what was happening.
And so began the fun of getting them all out of their rooms. I ran to about the first five, knocked, barged in, and told each of them just to come out their front doors so that we knew they weren't inside. Almost none of them had heard the alarm. Those that had heard something hadn't thought to find out what it was, or hadn't clicked that a fire alarm means "get out". Sigh.
I then found that some of the other staff weren't helping me. What the HELL? One was sitting and eating cereal. Another one was setting the dining tables. Good luck to the residents if the building goes up in smoke one day... don't worry, the tables will be set and the staff's stomachs will be full while people die. I managed to get them to help, and I am still surprised that I had to *ask*.
Dennis has a broken arm; Marjorie had a fall yesterday and is wobbly; Mrs Xu had not heard the alarm and had no idea what I wanted (with almost no English) so I managed to explain that she had to sit outside, and when she came out she heard the alarm and finally understood what I wanted. I walked in on one lady on the toilet (door open wide, the poor thing was in a terrible hurry). Two of them were showering. The second one, Pete, was stark naked when I walked into his bedroom. He had the good humour to laugh at my embarrassment.
By this stage the fireys had arrived and residents had congregated on the balconies to watch the "show" as eight of them walked in with gas tanks and wearing full paraphernalia. The fire engine followed them (we're on a long driveway off a back laneway). The fireys all marched around all purpose-like while 30 sets of elderly eyes followed them with keen interest. It was all very entertaining for an otherwise boring Sunday morning. The "terrible fire" was determined to be the shower of the gentleman I'd walked in on, but nobody knew how to turn off the alarm. It's a good thing the manager called me on my mobile just then, to tell the fireys how to disable it ;)
So, no fire. What a let-down! Still, it's better than actually trying to get all those people down to the ground floor if there actually had been a fire that was moving with any speed. Celia (the manager) told me that the alarm went off a week ago too, and that there was a new system going in over the next month. Thank goodness for that.
Once we realised all was good, I started letting the residents know they could go back to their rooms. But they stayed right where they were, despite the rather frosty air (probably about 10 degrees C, which to an elderly person is Arctic). Nora, who is a miniature chainsmoker whose room constantly oozes cigarette smoke, remarked, "They're strapping young men, aren't they?" and leered at them over her balcony. I attempted to make small talk about needing to be fit to climb ladders, but it became apparent their ladder-climbing skill wasn't what she was interested in. When I got back to the kitchen to try something mundane, another staff member was giggling madly. "Ester is perving on the firemen," she said. As I write this, I'm finding this difficult to believe. Ester is the sweetest, perfect 'little old lady' type person, and here she is, starring in two perve anecdotes in a row. I would sooner imagine her baking scones and bottling home-made jam.
"They're all still standing out there and talking about how handsome they are and the great bodies they have. And how they thought that firemen were supposed to be in red suits, not yellow. But how they're very handsome young men anyway who are welcome to visit any Sunday they please. And then they started discussing whether anyone knew how to set the fire alarm off next week."
...that a REALLY REALLY LOUD fire alarm is of little use when so many residents are deaf.
It went off this morning at about 8am. We all ran out to find out whether it actually was our property and yep, it was us. No info in the personal care room... no idea what to do really, so I called my aunt at home, who called the manager for me while I rang the fire brigade. I called them mainly to ask about evacuation (it's something of a pain in the backside when you have so many elderly residents, some of whom are unable to walk very far unassisted). The firey remarked with surprise that the back-to-base alarm had not activated at his end. (Disturbing, but it's because there wasn't one.) No smoke anywhere so we were pretty clueless as to what was happening.
And so began the fun of getting them all out of their rooms. I ran to about the first five, knocked, barged in, and told each of them just to come out their front doors so that we knew they weren't inside. Almost none of them had heard the alarm. Those that had heard something hadn't thought to find out what it was, or hadn't clicked that a fire alarm means "get out". Sigh.
I then found that some of the other staff weren't helping me. What the HELL? One was sitting and eating cereal. Another one was setting the dining tables. Good luck to the residents if the building goes up in smoke one day... don't worry, the tables will be set and the staff's stomachs will be full while people die. I managed to get them to help, and I am still surprised that I had to *ask*.
Dennis has a broken arm; Marjorie had a fall yesterday and is wobbly; Mrs Xu had not heard the alarm and had no idea what I wanted (with almost no English) so I managed to explain that she had to sit outside, and when she came out she heard the alarm and finally understood what I wanted. I walked in on one lady on the toilet (door open wide, the poor thing was in a terrible hurry). Two of them were showering. The second one, Pete, was stark naked when I walked into his bedroom. He had the good humour to laugh at my embarrassment.
By this stage the fireys had arrived and residents had congregated on the balconies to watch the "show" as eight of them walked in with gas tanks and wearing full paraphernalia. The fire engine followed them (we're on a long driveway off a back laneway). The fireys all marched around all purpose-like while 30 sets of elderly eyes followed them with keen interest. It was all very entertaining for an otherwise boring Sunday morning. The "terrible fire" was determined to be the shower of the gentleman I'd walked in on, but nobody knew how to turn off the alarm. It's a good thing the manager called me on my mobile just then, to tell the fireys how to disable it ;)
So, no fire. What a let-down! Still, it's better than actually trying to get all those people down to the ground floor if there actually had been a fire that was moving with any speed. Celia (the manager) told me that the alarm went off a week ago too, and that there was a new system going in over the next month. Thank goodness for that.
Once we realised all was good, I started letting the residents know they could go back to their rooms. But they stayed right where they were, despite the rather frosty air (probably about 10 degrees C, which to an elderly person is Arctic). Nora, who is a miniature chainsmoker whose room constantly oozes cigarette smoke, remarked, "They're strapping young men, aren't they?" and leered at them over her balcony. I attempted to make small talk about needing to be fit to climb ladders, but it became apparent their ladder-climbing skill wasn't what she was interested in. When I got back to the kitchen to try something mundane, another staff member was giggling madly. "Ester is perving on the firemen," she said. As I write this, I'm finding this difficult to believe. Ester is the sweetest, perfect 'little old lady' type person, and here she is, starring in two perve anecdotes in a row. I would sooner imagine her baking scones and bottling home-made jam.
"They're all still standing out there and talking about how handsome they are and the great bodies they have. And how they thought that firemen were supposed to be in red suits, not yellow. But how they're very handsome young men anyway who are welcome to visit any Sunday they please. And then they started discussing whether anyone knew how to set the fire alarm off next week."
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