10.30am – The Oakhill

I drive my silent vehicle into Sycamore Lane looking out for the grounds of number 31 – The Oakhill. A Live-in Home where one of my closest friend’s Mr. R Lester resides. I have known him since I was a boy, and it is all true that he is ostentatious, egregious, pious, hot-willing, inordinate, garish and bizarre. He is entirely complex and has always shown as much, tossing ten pence to the pound to flow beyond the limits of a dreams reach. Which leaps fourth with its fingertips onto something magnanimous and imprudent. Hence his adorned title: Mr. Lavish. It seems odd and ridiculous to pay so much attention to this fact, that at all times it seemed even he was tender of his anxiousness, as to precede the thought which takes an individual from and not to the place one needs to be. The Dreaming Trinket.

The car stops smoothly as I guide the steer gently into the available spot, I look out the front screen and there is a grey sky twisting with wind and leaves. I see the three-piece of a man, woman and child, in all its inseparable connections, following the path of a billion steps. Towards another second beneath the mist of dew and droplets of rainwater alike. The driver-side door has an empty open, like there is no audible sign that the door is open nor closed. Well, other than one seeing or feeling so, and with the lightest feather touch, one is outside the car. I look over the now stable water droplets on the front screen, as of which when driving I saw shake and tremble like cold swimmers from the sea. I depress the lock on the key-switch to my car, and a yellow light flashes from the indicators on the wing-mirrors, before themselves manoeuvring to a more stream like shape parallel with the car, to avoid the potential of another driver knocking them invalid.

There are clicks from the heels of my shoes which seem to echo and reverberate gently across the lower edifice of The Oakhill. White marble, and orange-brick line wide and tall windows, that are intersected with brilliantly white shapes. Nestled in front of the edifice are rose bushes of soft pastel pink and white, yellow and pure red, which stem before the imposing sight of the building’s grandeur. I think to myself that this place is as well-kept as all places ought to be, and I think it would be pertinent for one to pay an environmental hygiene tax, which without seems never to allow most of society to upkeep in the same pretext as officials or the wealthy. Seems awful odd to me, that money can buy one hygiene, when it ought to be the sensibility of any nation to protect itself from the fear of living dirtily.

I enter and the air is clean with indoor plants and bustling medicinal staff, which are dressed much more casually than one might imagine. I turn my attention to the desk, which looks more like the foyer of the Titanic, than the reception for a Dementia-Home; but I guess that’s what money can buy. I approach the middle-aged woman behind the counter, and she is wearing her auburn complexion in a ponytail and dressed in a navy unflattering all-in-one. Her blue eyes are glued to papers that she seems to rummage with, and I feel impolite to interrupt, so I accidentally sort of stare at her awkwardly awaiting her to naturally realize I am there. In what I suppose is actually a purely inauthentic anxiousness. And there it was, the Great British Monotone of Mundanity; Impolite over-politeness. After clearly too long, I tire of the game, and approach closer now and introduce myself, but before I can, she inconveniently notices and interrupts.

“Oh, Hello. Please excuse me, I am looking for something very important, Oh blast it! Never mind, I’ll have to find it later” She is like the stream of a friendly consciousness “I’m Heather the manager of The Oakhill, I’m so sorry, how are you, can I possibly help?” She says listlessly because I’ve met her every Thursday for the last two years, since Mr. Lavish moved into The Oakhill. This place has the strangest ability to seem both completely and incompletely competent. I respond merchantly, “Er, yes, Hello. I’m here to see Rex, Lester.” There is a pause. “Oh, of course, I knew it couldn’t have been Wednesday” she says confidently. I stare at her a little vacantly, squinting my eyes in a priming disbelief, before she drops her paperwork, and runs off shouting “I won’t be a minute, I’ll just go get Rex for you.” I am bewildered, and glide my head left to right, wondering if she even knows my name at all? I mean she didn’t ask, and I don’t think she has the attention span to even remember, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was caught in an endless loop of people asking favours of her, and to that she never has even the opportunity to finish one task without the arrival of another, as the distraction to the previous. The thought stays with me a while, before I decide I will make two cups of tea. One for myself and one for Mr. Lavish.

I reach the communal kitchen area and place two cups below a machine; I press the corresponding on-screen button and the hot water begins to spurt. I am relieved of even this task; it makes me wonder what will be left to even prepare in the future of the future? The death of Human Agency. The intermittent explosivity of boiling water into the mug sounds abrasive but tastes consistently excellent when mixed with a bag of leaves, so it really is a price worth the cost. As I seat myself on a couch by the window to the outer gardens, where people walk, often accompanied. I catch Heather’s eyesight walking past, and I wave a hand. She sees me and is unconvincing in her eyes. That I know now too, she has not yet requested Rex and by the time he comes down, his tea will be cold. I suppose other than the waste of my time and the tea, no harm done. She looks around, and excuses herself mouthing the words one sec, running off, presumably to forget to tell Rex she forgot to tell Rex I am downstairs.

I go to the fridge and retrieve some green milk, as to say that it is actually white, but the bottle cap is green, and this is my preferred choice; semi-skimmed.