Dying for a Ham Sandwich
Please do not require an urgent social care response between 8 pm or 8 am
“I know what you're thinking,” she says as I watch her shuffle - walking frame in hand - to the living room.
Then, she looks up, “I ain't going into that bloody hospital, whatever you say.”
She slumps into the chair. She's running a temperature; it's clear she has a chest infection. I’m worried.
“Is there anyone nearby who can drop in?” I ask.
“No”. Now …