Irony abounds
A little while back I attended an expo funded by the federal and state governments (in Australia) for all things to do with carers and respite services. You know, care of the disabled and elderly. My wife is really my carer, technically, but she didn't feel like going and I was interested in whatever information might be had. It was creepy.

On arrival at the local town hall I signed in as a guest etc, and was given directions by an incredibly smiley, friendly young woman in a casual uniform of polo shirt and trousers - shown where all the freebie food was, tea/coffee etc, a schedule of the talks to be given up on the main stage and pointed helpfully to the array of booths and tables about the hall representing various organisations both private and public. Lovely. Not many people here though. And I am the youngest by at least 15, more like 20 years. The first question I got was "so are you caring for someone or.....oh, so your carer is at home???"

Now at this point in time my speech wasn't as bad as it is now, but it was pretty bad. Basically, I sound fairly retarded, and thinking back I'm pretty sure that the judgments amongst the polo shirt women (all women, all young, all smiley and solicitous) ran along the lines of 'brain damaged'. I'm not, I just have this inconvenient disfiguring and early-mortality-inducing autoimmune disease. Never mind, eh? But as my speech even then was so impaired I'd given up doing much chatting or explaining. I was just here hunting for information.

Behind every table sat a variant on that special sort of lady-of-a-certain-age spruiking the services of a charitable yet expensive private respite retreat, or a government sponsored osteoporosis and falls prevention clinic. They were all so terribly nice and so terribly over-prepared for the underwhelming crowd in my town that by the time I was halfway around the room I had 10 pens (well I did take 3 from the Public Trustee because they were rally good ones), half a dozen of those squeezy stress balls, a fistful of showbags of all sorts and more knowledge about female urinary incontinence than I could ever use.

Then a polo shirt smiley girl attacked again. "You know there's food just over there? Tea? Coffee? You've seen where the toilets are? Food? Tea? Juice?" Smiling back, saying "no" to every little thing offered (except the toilet location. I nodded yes to that) and sending her on her way. But they kept coming. A couple of minutes and two more pens later a new one bounced up "I see you've not got yourself any of the lovely food yet - there's cakes, and fresh muffins, sme chicken wings and.." I interrupt with a smile and a "No, thanks, I'm fine really" and take pause. Everyone but I are hoeing into the freebie buffet like it's their last. Of course, the carers, elderly and disabled in this country are generally rather poor, what with the cost of staying alive being somewhat higher and the chances of earning any money from gainful employment rather somewhat slimmer than average. Some there were clearly going to saving money on skipping dinner tonight. Maybe the polo shirt girls were concerned I might keel over on them, as I'm 6ft and less than 55kgs.

Visit more tables, listen to a speaker on some shit or other. More pens, showbags, squeezy balls, two polo shirted would-be feeders until I try and explain to the last one properly, through the magic medium of the very best, least-monglike voice I can muster:

"The thing is, I cannot eat or drink at all you see. I have a feeding tube"
(Entirely undaunted) "Great, how about I just get you a plate with a bit of everything!"
This sort of thing happened all the time until I gave up sentences longer than four words.

She came back to find that I'd sneaked off to avoid her further embarrassment.

Later that evening, I am settling down in my favourite armchair, the theme tune to the evening news just starting up, when there's a knock at the door. Four of the bloody polo shirt smiley cuties were there with a massive fuck-off hamper of edibles, evangelical grins affixed and camera in hand. Flashes, poses, smiles, congratulations and they're gone. Seems the "confidential government survey" I filled out to give them a better understanding of the needs of carers in our town and region also served as a door prize entry. Seriously gourmet stuff, almost none of which my wife was into. We spent NOTHING on gifts for our neighbours last Christmas.
(dadadali has hybrid vigour, Fri 29 Apr 2011, 14:10, 1 reply)

Aww, nightmare. Good on you repurposing the gifts though - sounds lovely. x
(resurrection_mary cannibal_ferox, Fri 29 Apr 2011, 14:25, closed)