Smoother engagement today with Al, good focus and clarity. A number of photos were shown him and all positive recognition. More thin he appeared, the general woefulness uncomplicated—it stood directly before you no possibility of avoidance, nothing other than immediate. There was little complaint from the man: the food was shit house, yeah; they lorded over him with their regime; nothing he could do about it. Thankfully the plums taken in were consumed with relish, over half a dozen in quick succession. At one point there was concern he was unintentionally swallowing the kernels. Even the less ripe of the remaining dozen would be perfectly OK later in the evening; Al wouldn’t be putting any aside for the morrow. Green grapes had also been brought, though it was the plums that were relished. Getting out to the garden was easier in his chair this time, a spot of sun found by the fence, the tall young tree before us and the Aboriginal flag fluttering behind. There the photos were displayed, the screen shaded for him. Johnnie Good’s pic of the thinking man, as Al had called it, and others of his earlier self only a couple of years ago, one of which made him laugh and the other not recalled. When the wind sprung up more strongly and the cloud came over it was time to retrace the steps. Almost an hour and half in all, though Barry’s ear chewing during the phone call in search of Al’s reading glasses took a good twenty minutes. There was some shared laughter at Barry’s well-known habit on the phone. Thought was the LRB front and rear covers could give reminders of something, the former spark perhaps; titles of the pieces in the larger font and the advertising too. A few months before when Al had been taken reading matter out to the flat he often burrowed in immediately, even before taking to the food that was brought and often forgetting his visitor. There was some of that again on the hospital bed. Ordinarily you just blank out, Al explained.
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