Hilda sits on the edge of her bed, both hands draped over the bars of the zimmer, her head tipped back, looking as mean as a Hell’s Angel relaxing at the lights. An Occupational Therapist writes notes in a folder the other side of the room.
OT: This is Jim! He’s come to do a Health Screen for you!
H: Jim? Is that what you said? He’s called Jim?
J: Yep. Hello! I’m Jim.
Studies me for a second.
H: The last Jim I knew kept ringing me up all times of the day and night asking when I was going to die so he could have all me money. We had the police on him but it didn’t help. He pulled Chas out of his wheelchair and threw him across the room. We had to take a restraining order out. He’s in prison now. I was on pills for me nerves for weeks. I never really got over it.
J: I’m sorry to hear that, Hilda. On behalf of Jims everywhere I can only apologise.
OT: Our Jim’s not like that. Are you?
J: No-o. No. Absolutely not. No.
H: I expect we’ll see about that, shan’t we?