Beauchamp Close looks like a set from Lord of the Rings. Maybe if I had a cloak and a long clay pipe instead of my obs kit we could shoot Episode 3: The Return of the Non-Injury Faller. (in which Sauron rucks the carpet for Bilbo to catch his toes in). It does seem a strange choice of styling for a retirement complex. Maybe the architects thought using all these weathered oak beams and narrow red bricks in the Tudor style would make the old folk feel at home, cosplaying their way into senility. Although I wouldn’t have so much of a problem with it if the place were designed to look like the set from Aliens 2, so maybe it’s not so bad.

I’m met at Gracie’s door by Leila, the carer. She’s got earbuds in her ears and a phone in her hand held out flat like she wants me to take a bite. It’s a little disconcerting how she switches from talking to me to the phone and back again without any change in pace or tone. I keep getting it wrong, interrupting or not answering. Whichever way, Leila looks increasingly annoyed – red-faced, distracted, twitching her ponytail like – well – a pony. A pony that needs to get on.

‘She’s through here,’ says Leila. ‘She fell on the floor but didn’t hurt herself. One minute she was chatting to me, the next – BOOMF! I helped her up and onto the sofa. She hasn’t been right since I came in, though.’
‘What do you mean, not right?’
‘She was wearing three hats.’
‘Three?’
‘One on top of the other… Gracie? It’s the man from the hospital…’

Gracie also has a ponytail, but this one is longer and thicker than Leila’s (which must have helped with the hats). It sprouts up from the very top of her head, bound at intervals with black rubber bands – the kind of umbilicus that tethers deep sea divers to their diving bell (or whatever it is divers go down in to explore deep sea living rooms). Despite the heat, Gracie is wearing heavy flannel pyjamas with a pair of black knickers stretched to bursting point over the top, Superman-style.
‘Where’s your cloak?’ I say.
‘What did he say?’ says Gracie.
‘He says where’s your cloak?’
‘Your cloak!’ I say, louder. ‘You’re wearing your pants over your trousers. So.. you know… like Superman!’
She frowns up at me.
I mime being Superman.
‘Ooh,’ she says to Leila. ‘Who IS this?’
‘Superman,’ says Leila, ‘Apparently.’

I check Gracie over. My best guess is that she’s suffering from an infection somewhere and it’s making her confused. I ask Gracie questions and she sings me snatches of music hall songs, although none that I’ve heard before, with lyrics she makes up on the spot:

Gracie my Gracie the dog it was that died
the pills that you want are on the kitchen table dah di dah …

There’s a lurid green oil painting on the wall opposite: a labrador retriever sitting up on its haunches, surrounded by puppies. The labrador has a ridiculously human expression on her face, looking off to the side with its eyebrows raised, as if to say: ‘Oich – What am supposed to do with THESE?’
The puppies themselves are pretty odd, too. They look more like tardigrades under a microscope, scrambling over each other.

I discuss the options with Leila. There’s no one available – no family or friends – who could stay with Gracie and keep her safe. The only option is to call for an ambulance and do further tests in hospital. It’ll be a two hour response, but Gracie doesn’t seem to mind. She listens to my explanation with a clownish expression, her lips pursed and her eyebrows raised, then she cackles, and bats the air between us.
‘Don’t be so soft!’ she says. And tries to get up, only to fall backwards again.

I’m in the process of righting her when Leila leans in to touch my arm. She seems five degrees redder than the last time I looked, fit to blow.
‘I’m ever so sorry but I’ve just GOT to get on’ she says. ‘I’ve got like SO many people to see. There’s no one can come and sit with Gracie from the office ‘cos we’re short today.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I tell her. ‘Thanks for taking care of things up till now. I’ll sort something out.’

She squeezes Gracie’s hand, gives me a grimace emoji in red, then hurries out.

I ring the office to ask if any of the care team might be available to come and relieve me. They say they’ll do their best.

‘It’s you and me, Gracie!’ I say, leaning back in a Windsor chair and folding my hands in my lap. The chair snaps and creaks alarmingly, so I lean forwards again.
‘So – Gracie,’ I say, thumbing at the picture, nodding at her. ‘Tell me about these dogs.’