Afternoon theatre

Setting: afternoon cup of tea, Dad's care home.

Old lady, with jet black hair and a piercing gaze, from seat by the wall, to old man nearby: "It's that woman, you know." (Points at empty space in front of her.) "She's the problem. I know some men here who could get rid of her. That's what she needs, getting rid of."

Old man, looking confused: "Really?"

Old lady. "Yes. That's what they should do, get rid of her. She's an interloper. She should go."

Old man, looking worried: "I think I'll go back to my room now."

Old lady, with more piercing stare, leaning forwards: "I wouldn't do that if I were you. That's not a good idea at all. You might get killed. I should stay down here if I was you. Stay down here and just walk around a bit. That's best."

Old man, getting up as rapidly as possible: "Good idea. I'll do that."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, my father has corrected me on the pronounciation of the old fashioned pharmaceutical unit "drachms" (pronounced drams), had an entirely lucid conversation about the girls, his supper, etc, and then told me a completely invented story about how he was suddenly stricken ill and required to use a zimmer frame, admitted to hospital, etc, on his way back from a trip to Guildford Cathedral, where he hasn't been for about 40 years, as far as I know.

It's so bizarre: someone can use the word "interloper" correctly in the midst of quite severe dementia, and Dad drops random moments of fantasy into our painful, laboured conversations. And the world is full of hidden scenes just like this, every day, from the wreckage of so many once full lives: and none of us knows whether this is the future waiting for us or not. Just as well, perhaps.