Spreading wooly smiles

Posted on January 9, 2026 by thepogblog

Around Christmas time I heard an appeal from the RSPCA on the radio for people to make blankets for cold furballs.  I can’t stand the thought of a cold furball, so I got crocheting and made this one:

We have an RSPCA branch near by and I had some bits for their charity shop so I took it down today.  It turns out that most RSPCA branches are actually independent and self funded, and in the case of the one here didn’t have a connection to the central campaign.

But they were SO happy to get a brand new blanket that a cat could have there and be re-homed with that it seemed just as important at the Pet Food Bank.  So  I left that one with them and maybe I’ll send the next one that I started last night in the post to the central campaign.

I just thought I’d pop this on here incase anyone else has bit of wool to use up and a bit of time to knit or hook one while watching TV or travelling on a train or being a passenger in a car or (If you knit or crochet, you know this list can go on and on).

It seems like such an easy way to help a fur ball that needs a bit of extra love and to spread a smile.  Everything (other than the wool and your time) you need is here here  🙂

Posted in animals, cats, crochet, dogs, makingness | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

No aliens to see here

Posted on January 8, 2026 by thepogblog

Once upon a time (around a decade ago), many miles away (Bumpkinsville), my brain used to do a weird thing on quite a regular basis.  At least, I think it’s weird; I guess other people’s brain might do the same in the same circumstances.

You see, in those days, I lived alone in Pog Towers and could work from home for a few days at a time, so often I wouldn’t see or speak to anyone for a few days.

And then, when I went to work I used to leave at around 5am (because, well, people) to drive to the station.  And because I lived in real Bumpkinsville, and because it was silly o’clock, I’d rarely see anyone else on the drive.  And my brain had two places it would often go to:

  1. There’s nobody around.  Is it actually a bank holiday and you forgot?
  2. There’s nobody around. Did the world end and you are actually the only person left?

Now I live in a busier area, with Mr R and I can’t remember the last time I had either of these thoughts.

Until today when my brain clearly decided to make up for lost time.

As Percy and I went up the road, across the nature reserve and over a field I realised it was really, really dark.  And we were late leaving, so it should have been lighter than usual.

Then we got to the woods and the ground looked wet, but one step in and as I did one of the cartoon leg wheel things it became clear the entire trail was black ice.

And then I realised, despite being late, and presumably because it was pitch black, there were no birds singing.  It was silent.  And dark.  And really rather spooky.

Now for this next bit you need to know that I wear glasses.  And without them things are…well…very soft focus and rather blurry.  And I don’t plod with glasses on as they steam up.

So it’s pitch black, spooky and so icy that I’m picking my way along the side of the path so my trainers can grip something and I realise I cant see Percy’s light, so I call and call and in the distance I can see a red triangle of light with two small orange lights above it slowly coming towards me and my brain decided to make up for all that time it’s behaved and informs me:

‘There has been an alien invasion.  That is why it is pitch black and why no birds are singing.  That thing coming towards you is either an alien coming to get you or a UFO full of them’.

And I actually froze.  Nearly half a century I’ve been around for now, and I still panicked, just incase my brain had it right and a Thursday morning alien interaction was on the cards. (To be fair to me, we did acquire a ghost in the house where we stayed in Cornwall over new year, so my rational self is having a bit of a crisis of confidence at the moment).

It didn’t.  No aliens.  No UFO.  It was Percy, his collar light blurry in my soft focus sight with his two eyes reflecting my head torch above.  Obviously it was.  But if I’m honest, I still wasn’t 100% sure until the delayed dawn started and the birds let me know they were waking up with their dawn chorus.

Lordy, we’re only a week in.  I’m not sure I can cope with this level of excitement throughout 2026.  It looks like it might be an interesting one 🙂

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Retaining information

Posted on December 12, 2025 by thepogblog

Someone in Mum’s dementia unit can read and retain information.  Dont get me wrong, this is great.  For them.  Less so for people like me.

Because, to keep people safe in a home such as Mum’s there are key pads on the doors and to use the lifts.  The codes (apart from the main door) are written in these little pictures hung by the key pads:

Only the picture next to the lift on the dementia unit has been removed.  Which is not ideal as I just cannot remember sequences of numbers for more than around 20 seconds (other than the phone number of my childhood home and the zip code of my friends address when she moved to America age 11.  Neither are useful as Mum and Dad changed numbers when they moved around 15 years ago, and my friend only went to the US for two years.  Why on earth would my brain doesn’t remove these numbers from my memory to make way for others, I don’t know).

Apparently I can’t even remember the number long enough to remember to write it down.  So each week I have to go and find a purple tunic person to give me the code and hope nobody interrupts my walk back to the lift as I repeat the sequence over and over…

So I’m not great with remembering numbers, but it turns out that I’m not good at remembering anything at the moment.  I only remembered to sign some of the Christmas cards I sent this year.  The reason I know this is that some people have recognised that anything with a crochet element can often be traced back to me and checked.  Others may be having a Valentine element to their Christmas courtesy of yours truly.

Then yesterday a solicitor (oh the joys of equity release!) contacted me as I’d only sent her half a document.  It was the important half, but apparently these legal people are picky and they wanted the rest.  I was told I’d I sent the first half in October.  I had absolutely no recollection until she sent me a photo.  And then I had no idea where it might be.  I went through all my Mum and Dad folders. Nothing.  I assumed it must be at Dad’s so I called and asked him to look through his folders.  Nothing.  I spent 2.5 hours yesterday afternoon separating every piece of paper in my Mum and Dad folders, my work folders, all of mine and Mr R’s paperwork and his and my desk drawers.  I even moved my desk and checked behind the radiator. Nothing.  Just as I was about to serve dinner I remembered another Mum and Dad folder I have (there is alot).  It’s the original one.  It was the first document in there.  Of course it was.

So while numbers are a known problem, I suspect that my head is currently just too full for any more information.  I shall concentrate on emptying it over Christmas, until only fairy lights remain 🙂

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Cracking on with Tuesdays

Posted on December 5, 2025 by thepogblog

This Tuesday I joined Mum for breakfast as there seemed rather a lot to get done and I’ve discovered it is possible to fit more into the day if you simply get up earlier and crack on.

However, the level of ‘cracking on’ that can happen in a room of people with dementia is a little on the low side, and this was highlighted by a loop of conversation around Mum’s marmalade on toast that went a little like this:

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I’m waiting for him’ (nodding at the man sitting next to her for no particular reason I could identify)

Me ‘I think he’s done, if you want to start’.

Mum: ‘I can’t’

Purple tunic carer (Mum loves everyone in a purple tunic.  I’m thinking of getting one): ‘Would you like to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I am’ (clearly not)

Purple tunic carer: ‘Here, pick it up like this’ (helping mum grasp the toast)

Mum: ‘Oh’

*Purple tunic carer walked away, mum put down the toast*

Me: ‘Mum, are you going to eat your toast?’

Mum: ‘I don’t have things to eat it with.’

Me: ‘You pick it up with your hands like the lady just showed you’

Mum: (looking incredulous) ‘Don’t be so silly; of course you don’t!’

The three of us did the loop for a while before Mum decided she was giving up on the toast and going to her room.  I grabbed her walker and tried to manoeuvre her to hold the handles.  Obviously I’d created a level of mistrust by suggesting using hands to eat toast with and Mum was not keen on following my suggestion.  And then I felt my scarf tightening around my neck… the lady who was sitting with her back to Mum had reached around and taken a shine to it, and presumably wanted a closer look.  I stepped slightly towards her to confirm that no, it wasn’t from Paris; I’d actually made it myself so yes, I was sure of that and to thank her for her interest, as Mum finally decided that the walker handles were for holding and started pushing away.  Just as the other lady started lacing her fingers through the granny squares that made up my scarf…

Not for the first time I felt a little like I was in some weird sitcom as I tried to step in front of the walker with the bottom half of my body to stop Mum wandering off alone, while unwinding the scarf from my neck so I didn’t get strangled, at the same time as gently removing the lady’s fingers from the holes they had wound themselves through. There was not a purple tunic in sight.

Anyway, we managed.  We got to Mum’s room.  Mum decided she didn’t want to be there now, so we went back.  And the toast had gone.  So Mum sat in a comfy seat near the Christmas tree and I left her listening to carols.

I went to Dads and (I am rather proud to say) cooked 22 meals for him, from scratch in three hours. I did have to clean all surfaces – including the windows – before I left, but we’ll gloss over that.  (I already mentioned that on Facebook and Instagram, so sorry for the additional brag here if you follow the blog there 🙂)

So I did manage to crack on for part of the day, anyway 🙂

 

Posted in care home, Cooking, COPD, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Musical Bingo, anyone?

Posted on November 28, 2025 by thepogblog

Now Mum has moved to the dementia unit at the care home, visiting has become a bit more of a gamble.  There’s a lot more activities for Mum to take part in and the team have no qualms with ‘encouraging’ visitors to get involved…

That is how a few weeks ago I became heavily involved in a game of musical bingo which had just started.  About ten residents were in a loose horse shoe shape in their armchairs, with the staff member front and centre pausing and plying clips on a CD.  I sat next to Mum who clearly had no concept what was going on but seemed to be enjoying herself;  I think the same was probably true of everyone there.  I started humming to a clip and realised it was on Mums bingo card so covered it with a chip for her.  The man to her right was having similar issues so I helped him out too.  And the lady on our left…well she was having a great time stacking counters willy nilly, so I left her to it.  I got a little more involved in the singing, but was totally outdone by the gentleman we’ll call Tommy who was singing each clip…and then as much of the rest of the song as he knew with the gusto of a West End star.

This carried on through the likes of ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, Cliff Richard and The Beatles.  A couple of times Tommy went quiet and I watched him and the ladies either side to realise that they were passing a pink slipper up and down their row.  Indeed, the lady to his left was only wearing one, but hadn’t seemed to realise the one that was being passed back every so often was the one she had lost. Up and down it went between the varying vocal arrangements and the suggestions of what the song could be.  At one point Tommy was passed the slipper, looked at it in surprise like it was the first time he’d seen it, raised each foot individually to check he wasn’t missing it, decided he wasn’t, and stuffed it behind a cushion.

The whole bingo game (38 tracks!) took most of the time I had planned to visit, but I’m not sure I’ve giggled that much visiting Mum before.  I admit I did practically hide the following week when everyone was being taken to a concert with a live singer (I got trapped in one of those Mum’s first week.  It’s an acquired taste…) Sadly, I didn’t visit on Giant Snakes and Ladders Day which looked quite fun:

Side note:  I’m writing this trying to show you the humour, because there is humour.  There has to be.  While people take great pains to tell you ‘what a horrible disease dementia is’ (absolutely) and how it is ‘cruel’ and ‘robs people of who they are’ (couldn’t agree more), I’ve not yet met someone with a relative with dementia who doesn’t laugh at it.  Because if you didn’t, you’d break with the sadness and frustration of it.  So if I sound a bit flippant, trust me; it’s how it’s done.

We weren’t finished there though.  Mum decided that she needed the toilet so I took her to her bathroom, helped her, and let one of the carers know (we found out that if Mum has a poo on your watch and you don’t tell anyone it doesn’t go in her charts and they think she is constipated and medicate for that, which obviously then has it’s own issues the next day).  ‘Lovely, said the carer.  Did you get a look?  Could you give it a number?’ And showed me this:

And once again I was reminded that there are so many things I don’t know that I don’t know.  Yet. 🫣

And on my way home I wondered what will be on musical bingo when my generation are in the homes.  Micheal Jackson, Bad ? Bon Jovi, living on a Prayer? Prince, Gett Off? The Shamen, Ebeneezer Good? Oh my God, it will be so much fun!

🙂

Posted in care home, dementia, family, looking after Mum, memory, stroke, Tuesday | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

It was a 5 minute job

Posted on November 14, 2025 by thepogblog

We all have those five minute jobs that grow legs occasionally, don’t we?

I had one yesterday.  All I had to do was call the local log man to request a delivery of logs.  And it turned out he had a delivery near by and could come out to me around 2pm.  And that was great.  I figured would probably only take 20 mins – 40 minutes maximum for me to get them stacked into the storage space under the house, then I could get on with All The Work Things.  Not quite five minutes, but I could make that work.

But as I ate my lunch and thought it through a bit more, I remembered Mr R had said we needed to empty the storage space under the house before we got logs delivered as it was currently full of all the things we’d dumped there over the last year, including a large chair, numerous part filled pots of paint, all our camping suff and some floorboards.  The logs were due to arrive in an hour – I had an hour to sort it.  So Percy and I rushed around the side of the house (one of us very excited that this could mean a bit of ball throwing time) and opened the under house doors.

Only I didn’t, because they were stuck shut.  I tried to use the key as a lever: nothing.  I got a knife from the house to use as a crowbar.  I bent the knife.  I got a second knife and tried to use both together:  Nothing.  I video called Mr R in London to show demonstrate the door issue and ask for suggestions, even though I then shot all suggestions down in flames (because clearly on some level this was at least partly his fault, and by this time I was hot and grumpy).  But I didn’t need Mr R’s suggestions; it turned out I just needed my lovely next door neighbour’s window cleaner who appeared like a giant bearded fairy and asked if he could help.  Obviously he just pulled on the key a tiny bit and the door just popped open (clearly, I’d done all the groundwork required).

I managed to remove / reorganise all the insides sufficiently so that when the log man arrived with the giant back of logs (around 1/4 tonne.  It wasn’t a Tesco bag for life – we’re talking a lot of logs), and we managed the get the wheely thing corrying the giant bag of logs down the drive, I had enough room to carry out my 20-40 minutes job which so far had taken and hour.  I stacked hard and fast and was very proud until I tried to close the door.  Not a chance.  Especially as the window cleaner had finished ages ago.

I think what had happened is that the doors had expanded slightly since they’s had three coats of paint added to then (rather expertly, I might add, by smaller Stepson).  I requested advice from Mr R:

(I’m not allowed to use power tools with cords unsupervised ever since I hedge trimmed through the hedge trimmer power cord.)

I found some sand paper.  I fixed a bit.

I realised the job was way bigger.

Obviously the electric sander had no instructions, so Percy and I examined it, had a think about what you might have to do and…

…well lets just say I might have missed my vocation as a power sander extraordinaire 😁

The power lead is intact.

I am intact.

I sanded nothing I didn’t mean to (mostly)

We now have cupboards that close. And open (without the need of a window cleaner).

And my five minute job only ended up taking 2.5 hours…🤷‍♀️

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Finding Brave

Posted on November 10, 2025 by thepogblog

I think sometimes we all need a bit more brave, don’t we?

My niece struggles to find her brave sometimes, but luckily it was brought to the attention Dave the Brave – the dragon in charge of all or our brave, and he sent her a letter and some extra special brave.

It turns out that Dave is surprisingly good at conversational hypnosis too, so there was actual magic happening when Little Wisps Mum read her out the letter…

I just thought you might like to see it 🙂

This new brave was named by Little Wisp (entirely independently) as ‘Ember’, proving that even when you are just finding your brave and are eight years old, you can have many other creative skills. 😁

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Introducing…Beryl

Posted on November 7, 2025 by thepogblog

Beryl lives up our road.  Beryl is all sorts of amazing.

She walks her dog – at a fair pace –  every day, whatever the weather, sometimes with her friend Derrick and his dog who both live a few doors down, and sometimes alone.  It’s Beryl and Derrick that have convinced Mr R and I that we will always, always have a dog, because they are both all sorts of amazing – Derrick is in his 80’s and today is Beryl’s 95th birthday.

Ninety-five, and not only does this woman walk her dog further than some of the locals half her age manage, but she also plays ball with him, bending down to grab the ball and throw it.  At the end of Beryl’s front path there is a washing up bowl that she fills with fresh water each day for the local puppers to grab a drink on their way past.  A full washing up bowl that she carries from the water butt, up the path and up some steps.  Ninety-five.

And her front garden is beautiful.  It’s also not insubstantial in size.  I always assumed she had a relative or maybe even a gardener to help maintain it, but a couple of months back we were chatting about the weather as we passed each other with the dogs and I asked if she’d been making the most of it in the garden.  ‘Ooh yes, she said; I’ve got a lot of weeding done today out the back.  And hour this morning, a rest over lunch and another hour this afternoon…’  And she confirmed that she does all the gardening, front and back alone, but ‘doesn’t grow as many vegetables as she used to’.

But aside from Beryls amazing agility levels, my favourite thing to know about her is something I learned a few years ago.  Beryl had been in hospital, and was discharged only if someone offered to care for her.  I don’t know her family situation, but it was Derrick that kindly stepped up and had her move into his spare room while she got stronger.  I saw Derrick walking both their dogs part way through this arrangement and asked how things were.  It was clear they were a little fraught (I think ‘bloody awful’ was his actual response 😬) .  Later that day, in an attempt to give them a smile (and because I am a bit of a feeder) I made an apple pie and custard for their Sunday lunch pudding and popped it up, intending to leave it with Derrick.  But Derrick had escaped (or possibly not returned from the dog walk…) and Beryl answered the door and invited me in.  We had a lovely long chat that included asking how long she’d lived in the road (about 60 years) and where she’d lived before.

‘Oooh, a small town in Kent you probably wouldn’t have heard of.’

‘Oooh, I’m from Kent…what was it called?’

And you’ll never guess what.  Beryl grew up in Bumpkinsville.  She worked in shops in the town I grew up in.  And – after a bit of conferring with my Mum (this was before Mum’s stroke) – it turned out that Beryl knew Cousin George.  I have no idea how Cousin George fits in the family tree, but my Mum and her sister were ticked pink that Beryl up my road knew Cousin George down their road, many, may years ago.

And that is my snapshot of Beryl.  I’m hoping I’m still writing this when she is 100 and by then I’ll have learned more of her life.  And had the balls to ask for a proper photo.  But for now, this is her and Derrick on their morning constitutional.

Happy birthday, Beryl!🎈🎈🎈

 

Posted in Bumpkinsville, fitness, gardening, Pog Life, the people you meet | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

A tale of numbers that made me angry

Posted on November 3, 2025 by thepogblog

Numbers are not my friends. They never have been.

They move around when I try to write them down or remember them, and if there are too many to deal with I swear they pretty much run around in my head, on paper or on the screen.

However, I seem to have swapped washing and dressing Mum for an influx of numbers that I can’t hide from.  Some I’ve got my head around.  Some I get up at 4.30am to write down on pieces of a4 paper to stop them from going round and round my head. And most recently some have made me outright angry.  This is a true story and a tale to remind you that even if numbers are not your friends, it is really important not to ignore them:

Mum was moved a couple of weeks ago from her bed on the nursing unit (the only bed available in July) to the dementia unit.  This was a move down one floor.

A few days before I was emailed and asked to confirm in writing the change to Mum’s fees.

I think most people know that care homes charge a shit load of money.  I don’t know if you’ve watched ‘Riot Women’ (Side note:  If you haven’t and are my sort of age – spitting distance of 50 – or older, male or female, I recommend it.  I’ve never cared about a group of fictional characters as much) – if you have, in pretty much the first scene, the character mentions her mum’s home is £5k a month and her brother goes nuts.  Let me tell you, they are getting a BARGAIN.  So anyway, they charge a shit load but short of packing Mum off to Yorkshire (where Riot Women is set) for the cheaper fees, we don’t have much choice.

So the Care Home business person asked me to confirm I was happy with the change, the day before Mums move, which should have been a fair sized decrease.  Only it was around half the decrease I expected.  I had a think and this is pretty much what happened:

Me: The figure you quote would suggest that the 6.5% increase due in April next year is being applied now.  Please could you advise?

Them:  Ah yes. The increase due in April has already been applied.

Me: Why? It’s October.

Them: It’s what we do.  Anyone who moves in or moves within the home from October pays the April increase early.

Me: Why?  Why would you expect me to agree to pay additional fees for 6 months?  You also haven’t written this down anywhere or told me it would happen.

Them: Oh.  Would you like us to request a price reduction from Head Office?

Me: No, as it’s not a price reduction.  Please request with Head Office that we pay the current fees for the dementia care until April and then increase in line with all other current residents.

<<<12 days and a number of emails to ask where we are later…>>>

Them: Approval has been granted

I can’t help thinking that if I’d responded without thinking, or if I’d run away from the numbers as I’d have preferred, or if I’d simply just trusted that businesses are all reasonable, we’d be paying 6.5% more on top of the shit load of money we already pay for six months that we shouldn’t have.  And I wonder how many people have done exactly that.  And that is what makes me outright angry.

So remember:  even if numbers are not your friends, it is really important not to ignore them.

And here is a photo of a flying Percy as even with numbers around, who can’t be uncheered by a flying cocker spaniel?

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The nose clip Tuesday

Posted on October 31, 2025 by thepogblog

Dear people in my computer,

On the surface, my Tuesdays might look quite same-y.  I negotiate the M23 and M25, experience the joys of Tesco, every four weeks or so I add a trip to pick up a small pharmacy for Dad, and then I spend time with Mum and Dad, mostly in their separate places.  But the ‘spending time’ detail is very varied.

Last week, for example, I managed to cook fifteen meals from scratch for Dad’s freezer while convincing a BT man that removing the copper wire and replacing it with a fibre one was not going to happen unless he could be 100% sure that the cable wouldn’t snag on the trees leaving Dad with no phone, internet or Ring doorbell (the compromise on a panic call alarm), while simultaneously getting a man into the loft who was surveying the house.

I was a little sad that they both arrived to see this chaos:

Rather than the end result which I was rather proud of.  More so when I managed to get it all in Dad’s freezer 😁

So that was last week.  This week we had another hospital appointment; this time for a lung function test.  I was allowed in and it was really interesting.  They needed an oxygenated blood sample (I think), which they can take from an artery or ear lobe.  A needle in your wrist artery isn’t terribly comfortable apparently, so they went for an ear.  I couldn’t work out how they’d draw blood from Dads ear lobes as they are capillaries rather than veins.  But it turned out they had that covered as the man put a cork behind Da’s ear while they cut the lobe with a razor blade a bit reminiscent of Van Gough…. I don’t know if everyones ear lobes bleed that much but Dad ended up needing a dressing and a clamp.

Next they put Dad in a Body Box (yes really) for a series of tests:

It was all relatively normal until Dad was given a nose clip for the tests and discovered that the nose clip gave him exactly the right sort of tone to sing The Muppets theme tune…which he did.  Many times over the next hour and 15 minutes of tests… 😂

Whenever he has a blood test dad request an ‘I’ve been brave’ sticker (and gets one).  The poor man doing the tests who may have been too young to remember the muppets came clean that he didn’t have a sticker, but Dad could keep the nose clip.  So as I wheeled dad out of the hospital, despite the fact he must have been exhausted, he was still de-de-de-de-dah…ing. 😁

And to go back to the Van Gough reference, Little Wisp, my 8 year old nice had drawn this for Nanny last week.  Isn’t it amazing?

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