“Rise and shine Harry! Do you know what day it is today?”
“No,” you say with a grumble, “and I don’t want to know neither!”
You’re not a morning person. You never have been, and if three lots of squawking and screaming babies didn’t make you a morning person, a couple of disgruntled nurses certainly won’t.
“It’s Saturday, Harry!” she continues in her perky manner, as though you had not spoken at all.
“So,” you snap, “Monday, Wednesday, Saturday: they are all the same to me!” You roll over in your bed and face the wall like a petulant child. The perky nurse falls silent, and you pray to Merlin that you’ve annoyed her enough to leave you in peace.
“Oh Harry; your memory is simply awful. Remind me to call in a healer later on today.”
“Don’t want to talk to no healer,” you snarl. You never did develop a love of healers. Your wife, may she rest in peace, once joked that you spent so much time with healers that you may as well become one.
“None of that, Harry. Now, as I was saying: Saturday is the day that your family come and visit!”
Oh yes, that’s right, you’d forgotten. You DO like Saturdays! You roll back over to face the nurse.
“Who’s coming?” you ask. The nurse gives you a tight smile. Apparently your plan to annoy her worked.
“I’ll tell you if you get out of bed and have some breakfast.”
“How about you tell me, and then I’ll get out of bed and have some breakfast?”
The nurse purses her lips and places her hands upon her hips, “I have forty other residents to get out of bed, Harry!” You continue to look at her expectantly. “Oh fine. It’s Madeline and Ryan. They’re bringing their two little girls along.”
Madeline and Ryan? You don’t even know who they are. That is how it is nowadays. Every week a different relative comes for a visit, but quite frankly you’ve forgotten who half of them are. It isn’t your fault, between grandchildren, great grandchildren, great, great grandchildren and all the nephews and nieces grandchildren’s grandchildren, you are quite sure that even somebody with all their memories intact would have a job keeping up. You just hope that they bring chocolate frogs; you never grow tired of seeing the cards with yours and your friends’ faces on them.
“Now, will you get up?”
You nod and slowly push yourself up off of your mattress.
“Is Hermione up yet?” you ask as the nurse flicks her wand, sending your best set of robes at you from your wardrobe. Hermione is the only person in this dratted place that you’ll socialise with. Hermione likes to talk of magical theories and law developments. It’s nice talking to Hermione; she doesn’t expect you to talk or answer her questions, in fact, she prefers it if you don’t.
“Hermione is sat at the breakfast table waiting for you, Harry. She told me that if you gave me any trouble I was to call for her. Do I need to call for Hermione?”
That gets you going! You’re out of the door and into the dining room as fast as your withered, old legs can carry you. The Hermione of two hundred and eleven, is, if possible, worse than she was at eleven.
“You’re late,” she snaps the second you reach the table.
“Who are Madeline and Ryan?” you ask, ignoring her scold.
“They’re the ones that just had twins. Honestly Harry; I was telling you just yesterday! They’re my great times five grandchildren.”
You frown. “Their teaming up on us!” you exclaim, “last week it was my side, this week it’s your side! They used to come together!”
“Well, if you’d remember their names and stop calling them all by the name of which son or daughter of yours they resemble the most, maybe they’d be more willing to visit.”
“I can’t remember my own name half of the time, and the other half of the time I’m trying to remember yours,” you snap. Hermione huffs and turns from you to talk to the gentleman next to her.