Loose hips sink SHIPS. I've been sleeping bad lately; waking up at 4 or 5am, watching the cold gather on the window panes, as the frost gathers on the ground outside. If you live in an old care home, like I do, then the building takes on a strange form at night, or in dead morning. The hallways- despite the effort we have put in to disguise them- look more like a care home than ever.
Through the darkness, Is the drone of the wet room fan. Occasionally, a stray electronic tag that cuddles the base of the fire doors will beep a tune, then aggressively churn, attempting to bolt the door locked. Before, these doors would remotely lock in the old, infirm, and mentally ill. Now, they are redundant but somehow still momentarily operational. Like those who once lived here, the security locks roll through their daily routine without the effect, or the energy that they would once have had.
We used to think that it should be haunted. That with over four years of living in various run down care homes we would have seen a ghost. I've seen nothing. Only felt the gradual decay of the building around me, which in turn, transmits a paranoia that I myself am decaying with it.
Perhaps that's why people die in places like this. Perhaps the fabric of the building soaks up the dying of the light, and radiates it back at those within. I wouldn't put it past these bricks; they reek of rot.
I remember when I first went to the previous care home I lived in, and I was taken into what would have been the nurses station for a meeting with the Head 'Guardian'- a facile title given to an old woman who did Reiki healing. As she bore on about various rules, I saw a whiteboard hanging on the wall. In each penned of section was the name of a resident from back when the home was still functioning. I looked to my room, number 9, and saw that a name had been half erased. Audre....the rest was rubbed. She had either moved out, finally cured of her age, or she was dead.
Strangely, I feel oddly at ease in the knowledge I have exclusively slept in rooms that have passed multiple hands. Even after this current one fell into disrepair, my bedroom was used as a makeshift brothel. Have you seen the price of a mattress these days.
Anyway, we are moving now. To Maida Vale. This blog will become a document of a poor man living among the rich, which might throw up some other, less macabre, subject matters.
For now, care homes, i'm free.