The Care Home

By Frankie Lassut

I didn’t like where I was living because it was home to some crazy people and me (and I’m dead sensible; really). So it was time to leaf through the paper and see if there was anything going anywhere; somewhere without the craziness, the rats I can handle. My general thought was ‘I don’t want to move again’, because I’d had a kind of nomadic experience over the last God knows how many years and I’d had enough. By that I mean, everywhere I moved another set of lunatics were waiting to present me with their particular brand of madness. So, enough was enough!
But, those two blighters’ fate and destiny hadn’t finished yet, and they were bored. They wanted a kicking boy, because they like a good laugh at someone else’s expense.
My better half looked in a paper.
Basically, the advert that stood out said: ‘room to let in an old folk’s home’. Basically, it was sheltered housing for people over fifty-five, the minimum age. The rest of the place was a haven for the senile and the disabled: a care home with sheltered housing. A Swiss Army Knife where people lived; how was that for a metaphor?
I had some inheritance money (not a bad stash actually for someone who murdered his mother). I inherited 12 million pounds, spent half of it on women and alcohol and planned to waste the rest. So I bought it and put it in my lady’s name; what a gift! I am so generous it hurts.
Then I started to live there ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frankie Lassut
• Release date: Apr 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463119181

Frankie Lassut

I am the one being shaved; the other one Nim, is is a looney bin now!I went to see a psychic years ago who ended up as my girlfriend; she didn’t see that one coming! But she was extremely honoured. However it ended badly i.e. it rained heavily as I buried her body and I got soaked. No! You don’t really want to hear about it, it’s depressing; I was joking about the burial. She told me that I was to uncover a talent I had ... Well, another psychic told me that as the first one was dead; I was lying when I said I was lying. Nothing happened for quite a while. Suddenly I realised I needed a ‘job’ quite badly as I was beginning to drink halves. No, not a boob ‘job’! I went for the cheap option i.e. the surgeon gave some socks to shove up my jumper when I go out. I got a ‘job’ (have you got boobs on your mind?) because someone told me that bus-driving was easy because you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel. She was about six, a wise woman ... that’s called an oxymoron. Fantastic! I thought get the job and in a couple of days I’d be driving all the nice passengers around and about seeing all the sights for a fraction of the cost of a tour bus; and we’d have a roof in case it rained. Easy! First of all though there was the training; and I entered hell.I was born in Cumbria in a little ex-iron ore mining town called Millom. It was only small, a one- horse town; the horse was called Peg. It had a pedigree name too, but I can’t remember it at the moment: Peggy Suss? However, I got fed up and left as I was the only man in a town full of women and they were all lesbys; I’ve always been lucky. I went to Blackpool and attended the photographic college. I then moved to Coventry and met the psychic who would tell me what was going to happen. I could say now that the rest is history. Well it is, but obviously not history as that’s all made up anyway. Then I got the job bus-driving, which as I said is easy ‘you just sit on your butt and turn the wheel’. The bus station management weren’t pleased that she had said that though, so she was tried and sent to Guantanamo Bay; they have a section for young kids who are bad to the bone.The job was so mad that I thought it would be a good idea to write out some posters and stick them all on the wall of the bus station. The other drivers enjoyed them, but the management tore them down, the badstars (that’s an anagram of astards +B). I carried on and ended up with a manuscript for a book, which, by the way is ‘brilliant’. The management didn’t like it, but bollocks to them.I couldn’t stop writing after that episode and I’ve been writing ever since, mostly cheques to people, such as the mortgage people and the gas board etc. I am so brilliant that I’ve lost all my friends because I wrote about them in my style which I believe is called Bizzaro. My inner being is a bit of a crazy horse, because whatever I write it has to be in that style, even the horror. It just goes that way. ‘Ordinary’ writing to me is like lemonade minus the bubbles ... I can’t bring myself to do it; but thank God I can still bring myself off. I need a selfie stick as I do that because the close focus on the phone won’t do it; how else am I going to post them on the Dark Web?Writing is like a drug. When I was writing my Millom book, the pictures that flashed into my head were so funny to me that I laughed myself into hernia-ville; my stomach tore. I got injured writing.You see, hernia-ville, a retirement home for people with stomach hernias; no comedians are booked to appear at that place.So, my writing is brilliant, so read the bloody stuff!I have actually suffered for my art. I won’t go to hospital to get it fixed because, well, I’ve written about that friggin place too.All that and now I’m an international bestselling author. I’m the only author in this world who has sold books on Mars (eat your heart out Tony Robbins), so I can say with certainty that Martians have fabulous senses of humour.What a profile!

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The Care Home

Copyright by Frankie Lassut 2019

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This is the story of ‘time’ spent in the sheltered housing part of a care-home. Read this account and you will probably not be prepared to go into a care-home willingly if that time should ever arise i.e. your twilight years. Those years where you should be starting to enjoy your life after being cheated by a cruel, no-holds barred world.

‘Ahhh! Those ‘trouble-free’ twilights after a stressful, misunderstood life!’