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 …