Saturday Night

They wait on motorised chairs and plastic seats, with stalks of shiny steel that rise up above balding heads and greying hair, bags of saline, intravenous prick. In sombre states of lonely dementia, depression, and other severe ailments, they sit in rows – three deep, five across, care home attendants looking on.

They wait for the talk show host.

His suit glistens under lights, makeup and blush applied in layers of rouge, the audience silent. Will Mrs Grey win the kitchen from Modus? Or scoop the grand prize, a trip to Florida with spending money. Sweaty fingers on buzzers hovering, tension mounting, applaud now, on the air.

Sudden death this week, poor Mr Thomson, and just before his grandchildren arrived to say hello, the talk show host on the TV, his favourite part on Saturday nights.

funeral next week,
limited social housing,
care system broken.