Dennis has good eyesight

I think Dennis has only been mentioned once before, in passing. He's a lovely old man, emphasis on the "old" part. Before his retirement he was a chairman of a very prosperous bank. Almost none of the residents have any idea. Dennis lives in Barrett House, in a one bedroom apartment devoid of anything luxurious. I would not call Dennis' flat uncomfortable; it's just evident when you look, that for someone who is very wealthy, the place is simple. He's somewhere in his nineties and walks with a limp and a cane.

Dennis has incredibly bad hearing. I don't think he wears a hearing aid of any description. And he must know his hearing is terrible, just from the many times he has to ask us to repeat something. He's perfectly sane; as with many old people there are occasional forgetful moments of course, but he still bears the mark of a very intelligent soul.

Whenever there's a movie being shown, Dennis and the other deaf residents are always placed close to the surround-sound speakers at the sides of the Royale's lounge room. One week there was a special treat for the residents. Two regular performers were coming back to do a show. It's a husband and wife team that sing and play the electric keyboards, and they have a repertoire of golden oldie songs and musical pieces that all the residents seem to love. Each time they do a "concert" the residents spend three days talking about the fabulous show and all the songs they sung, and "do you remember going to the theatre to see that show back in 1939," etc.

Dennis sat right in front of the massive loud speakers for this latest concert, so that we could be sure he would hear. Iris sat right at the front so she could see, and so on. The male singer, Charlie, walked up to a few residents after the show. "So ladies, gentlemen, how were we today?"

Gushing praise and acclimation followed. "I thought it was terrific!" exclaimed Dennis. Charlie took a moment to look deservedly chuffed as the others poured more praise onto he and Janet, his wife. Dennis' next statement might have been amusing if it had been said in jest. Unfortunately, he was completely serious and didn't grasp the humour in what he said at all.

"Of course," Dennis continued, "I couldn't hear a thing!"

Charlie didn't quite know what to say. It's not every day that a singer is told he's only terrific when he can't be heard.

The children visit

I took my kids to work with me on Friday (having no real choice if they wanted me to work) and my aunt took them to see Iris, who lives in The Courtyard (one of the middle-class areas of the village). You may remember Iris from her starring role in the Woofer anecdote. Iris' husband was a Spitfire pilot in WW2, and somehow in conversation last month she and my aunt had an hour-long chat about different relatives and their work in the armed forces. My aunt's brother was a decorated hero for destroying his small plane to take out a German tank on his own, or something like that. Iris told her the squadron he was in and when and where he served. Apparently they've exchanged war stories another dozen times, and every time Iris sees her in the office, they have another chat. I actually think my aunt tracks her down to have another chat every few days - she's quite interested in the war. Anyway, on Friday, my son Matty decided to make her a paper plane, and my daughter Kylie decided that all old people love hand-made greeting cards covered in every colour flouro highlighter that can be found in an office. (Well, they do love cards like that, don't they? I've no idea.)

Iris was most excited to see me that night at dinner time. "I spent the day with your children!" she exclaimed proudly, primarily, I suspected, for the benefit of the other dinner-table guests. They were suitably jealous of the so-called half-hour otherwise known as a 'day'. Stupidly jealous, I thought, since my two are hardly in hot demand... but hey, I wasn't going to tell them that. "They're lovely children!" she gloated. Doris asked their names, and Iris was most proud to tell her they were Kylie and Matthew, at which point the whole table agreed it was lovely, and that they were a Pigeon Pair.

"Your aunt showed me a spitfire on her television." It took me a moment to realise she meant the computer, but then she corrected herself. "Oh! Not the television, on the Internet!!!!" (Capital I for Emphasis.) Awed silence at such a miraculous invention.

At this point in my long and drawn-out story, I'm reminded of how great old people are. None of us young folk have any kind of awe for new stuff, we're all burned out on technology, but old people think new things are just sensational. It's beautiful. Hold that thought for a moment, because Iris had more to say.

"Of course," she said importantly to her captive audience, "I've no idea how she knew my husband was a pilot."

I have a new job.

I have a new job. It's working in the community kitchen of the retirement village where my aunt does the wages. Sorry, Lifestyle Village. I can't call it a retirement village. Those are for old people. It's a Lifestyle Village, which automatically makes 90-year-olds "not old". It's all about image. Or something.

I have nothing to do with my aunt, which is good, since my mother and I nearly came to blows working together at her work... but I digress. I'm a combination kitchenhand/waitress. Go me. Actually, I like it. The weekend pay is better than I was getting in tech support for sitting at a desk and I bring home more leftover food than I could possibly eat. Free food rocks.

I get to serve them all in the dining rooms. They're actually not a bad bunch at all. Most of them have all their marbles, albeit left over from 1972... the dinner table conversation can be quite amusing. On the weekend they had been discussing some actor from nineteen yickety two (I missed who) and that some movie of his had been on, and others were disappointed to have missed it on the tv. Enter our hero, Iris, who announced, "You're all welcome to come and watch it in my flat, I have it on Dee Vee Dee." Muttered discussion and awe as they all digested this new fangled news. I doubt many of them even have a VCR.

The amputee lady, Doris, has more spunk than the rest of them combined. "Well if you're finished boasting," she said, "I'll have a boast too. I have a new stereo, and it's got a Woofer."

This was met with gobstruck silence as they looked at each other in total ignorance. I had to leave the room to avoid laughing aloud. I listened from the kitchen. Finally one of them timidly asked the inevitable question.

"What's a Woofer?"

The discussion, of course, was all very serious, and they all learned about how it's important to emphasise the bass.





Marlene is knitting me some bedsocks.