One of the things you discover is that with old age, toenails - or more specifically, the cutting and trimming of them -  become a problem. Four factors are involved: toenails become gnarled and brittle, hands lose their dexterity, backs cannot bend as well as before, and failing eyesight makes it harder to see what you are doing. Enter, the podiatrist. Wherever old people are, there go the podiatrists. It is not a glamourous job, but it provides an essential service. First my father, whose eyesight is particularly poor, and then my mother, started visiting the podiatrist at the local day care centre. It used to cost $12 per person, but since my parents are both now regular 'clients' of the day care centre, they pay only $6. The podiatrist is a young chatty woman who sees several old people each Saturday. Today my parents had their appointments.

I turned up at the house at about 11 am and told my parents they both had podiatrist appointments today. I managed to get them into their coats and down the street without too much trouble. There was just the usual fussing around looking for my dad's wallet, my mum's handbag, and going to the toilet.

At the day care centre I handed them over to the podiatrist, and then had a cup of coffee in the common room. An old chap started to talk to me about a post 'about a foot wide and as tall as me.' This post seemed to be the only thing he could talk about. It featured in two different stories, once it was on the seabed when he was scuba diving, next it was almost the cause of an accident when he was travelling in a 4-wheel-drive. I was reminded that my parents are not as badly affected as others.

As we walked back to the house, my sister pulled up in her car. She dropped off some shopping and then went out to get us some lunch. Meanwhile, I tried to sort out the current issues. The outdoor lightbulbs need to be changed, as well as the one my sister changed yesterday. The footpath needs to be cleared of dog-shit and sprayed with citronella. The mail needs to be sorted out. The cats need to be fed. And so on. While I was out in the garden I heard a few loud bangs and a moment later my father came out to say that mum had fallen over. She'd been in the kitchen and seems to have lost her balance. She'd hurt her back, hip, and an arm. I tested for broken bones and so on, but it seems as if she has received only bruises. She is remarkably resilient. I sat her down and made her a cup of tea. A few minutes later I could rub her back and arm and she showed no sign of remembering that they had been hurting.

All the interruptions and repetitions today really wore down my patience. We had lunch together when my sister returned, and then I left. I couldn't bear to stay any longer. I like order, and get frustrated that everything seems so chaotic around my parents. I don't feel guilty about these feelings. I think I approach it quite rationally - problems need to be solved or prevented, so that's what we all do, though the solutions are always only partial and temporary. It is hard having Alzheimer's, but it is also hard trying to look after someone who has it. My sister had also had a hard day. My dad had called her several times during the morning to raise the alarm that there was no food in the house. There was, but it was all in the cupboards, not on the plates. He seems to have forgotten that one kind of food becomes the other. My sister was also near her limits. Sometimes you just need a rest.

The trousers, by the way, were back on my dad's legs, and looking unusually clean.