The Care Home

I didn’t like where I was living because it was home to some crazy people and me (and I’m dead sensible; really). So it was time to leaf through the paper and see if there was anything going anywhere; somewhere without the craziness, the rats I can handle. My general thought was ‘I don’t want to move again’, because I’d had a kind of nomadic experience over the last God knows how many years and I’d had enough. By that I mean, everywhere I moved another set of lunatics were waiting to present me with their particular brand of madness. So, enough was enough!
But, those two blighters’ fate and destiny hadn’t finished yet, and they were bored. They wanted a kicking boy, because they like a good laugh at someone else’s expense.
My better half looked in a paper.
Basically, the advert that stood out said: ‘room to let in an old folk’s home’. Basically, it was sheltered housing for people over fifty-five, the minimum age. The rest of the place was a haven for the senile and the disabled: a care home with sheltered housing. A Swiss Army Knife where people lived; how was that for a metaphor?
I had some inheritance money (not a bad stash actually for someone who murdered his mother). I inherited 12 million pounds, spent half of it on women and alcohol and planned to waste the rest. So I bought it and put it in my lady’s name; what a gift! I am so generous it hurts.
Then I started to live there …