...your mother's not covered in shit.' I've been saying to myself each Thursday, on the occasion of my weekly visits to mum and dad's place.

I find myself looking forward to the days when I only have to deal with urine-soaked sheets. These days, even when the carpets don't bear evidence of serious incontinence, my mother's clothes usually do. It appears that she defecates in her clothes more often than in the bed. It is not unusual to find soiled clothing secreted about the house, or badly rinsed articles somewhere in the laundry. In fact, it is not unusual to find mum wearing skirts badly stained with shit. For the last week this has been the case, and each of us has attempted to get her to change out of the dirty skirt and into a new one. Finally, Rachel succeeded, but when I visited yesterday, the skirt that mum was now wearing was similarly stained.

This is what I think happens. Mum shits herself. She goes to the laundry and rinses the skirt. She puts it to dry somewhere and then puts it back on when it is sufficiently dry.

It's a good week? No, not really. Because yesterday another problem reared its ugly head.

I've reported a couple of uncharacteristically heated rows I've had with dad over the last few weeks. I've attributed the tone of these episodes to my diminishing patience, but other evidence now leads me to think that it is dad who is changing too. For example, Rachel has said that twice since Christmas she has seen dad handle mum very roughly, and on both occasions she has been forced to intervene - as if separating two warring three-year-old, to use her own expression.

And now we have an outsider's opinion, too. The new leader of the day care centre that dad attends on Wednesdays telephoned Rachel this week to say that dad had been behaving aggressively, and that it was becoming rather a problem. According to her, there is one man to whom dad has obviously taken a dislike, and the staff have to be careful to keep the two of them separated. Additionally, dad has begun to call out loudly across the room at others - presumably for doing things that he disapproves of. The implication, only tacitly conveyed, was that unless dad is treated for this he will have to stop attending the centre.

Now, this was news to us, but not entirely a surprise. Dad has often mentioned someone at the centre whom he considers 'uncouth'. This man, and I have seen him do this at the Christmas party a year ago, makes frequent lewd suggestions to the female staff, and according to dad, attempts to pull at their skirts. That dad's anger at this had started to manifest itself is the bit that doesn't surprise us, but we didn't know that he was getting physical with it, or angry towards others.

So, yesterday, as dad and I were chatting, I said 'I hear there's been a bit of strife down at Echelon, dad.' He acknowledged that there was and immediately started talking about this 'uncouth bloke'. I asked dad what he'd done. His subsequent answers were informative in terms of what they didn't say, and how he reacted. He ducked and weaved. He was evasive. He told me what everyone else had done. He had done 'nothing'. In fact, he had been personally thanked by the manager for his behaviour. So, I thought I'd push it a bit.

'Well, they've been saying you've been getting a bit aggro, dad.'
Now dad started acting quite strange. He grew red in the face and became very animated, to coin a euphemism.
'Well, what would you do?' he asked.
'Have you ever been in trouble? I mean, real serious trouble?' He formed a fist and began feinting punches. 'Would you know how to act?'
'You mean have I had a knife pulled on me, for instance? That kind of thing? Yes, I have, dad.'
'Well, you'll know then.'
It was really quite odd. I can hardly imagine knife fights at the day care centre. Anyway, this sort of conversation went on for quite some time, me constantly coming back to the question:
'But what did you actually do, dad?'
In the end, dad admitted to pushing this fellow.

So, it seems that dad has reached the stage of aggression we also saw in mum a few months ago. I decided on my own initiative to give him one of mum's Risperidone tablets yesterday. Rachel and I agreed that I would fax Dr Humerus for her opinion. I am suggesting that the doctor simply mail us a prescription, since packing mum and dad up in the car and driving them to her surgery for a usually quite uninformative five minute chat is too much of an encumbrance these days.

So, it's a good week when your mother's not covered in shit and your dad doesn't hit you.