Mr Hancock doesn’t like me. This is strange, because while I’d hardly win a popularity contest out there, in here I am well liked. And yet he despises me. At least this is the impression I’ve always had. Anyway, it’s OK, the feeling is mutual. I guess you could say we see through each other. Something about him makes me uneasy and I am convinced he senses it, feeds off it. We didn’t expect him to last long, but he’s been with us two years now and seems to be gathering strength as he gets older, like a dry-aged piece of steak, and despite the fact he is veined with rot. I think about Emmy saying that he tried to kiss Bex, that day we were in the laundry room. Mona says that all men get weird with age, when they aren’t already weird before. Still, she knows how us girls feel about Mr Hancock and will cover for us if she’s feeling kind. No such luck today and it’s entirely my fault: I was in charge of this weekend, but I got distracted. I should’ve foreseen this. I hide my face in my hands and hope the light will stop flickering, but it only seems to flash more urgently. Because everything is an emergency for Mr Hancock.

But then what if it is an emergency? I’m already half an hour late. My head is fucking killing me. Stop being a baby. I grit my teeth. Be practical. It’s easier to get this done than sitting around thinking up an excuse. I lock the front door and head for the lifts.

Mr Hancock’s room is the largest in the care home, set apart from the others and at the end of the top-floor corridor. This arrangement was specifically requested and no one objected. If anything, we are grateful to be able to store him away from the others. We try to forget about him. Until he gets on the buzzer, that is. Which, yes, he does often, but am I being unfair? Other patients do this frequently, too: a glass of water, a cup of tea, feeling lonely and simply needing a chat. It’s part of our job and a big reason why this job – this place – exists at all. In here, their needs have meaning and are a matter of urgency. Old people get lonely. Most have lost more loved ones than they have left. The heart deteriorates, in the same way as eyesight or hearing. What’s wrong with me today? So I got laid for the first time since the break-up. That’s no reason to get sentimental. It wasn’t exactly romantic. Am I being sentimental? No. I think I am feeling morose. Everything seems so gloopy.