The old lady in black was bent over the body of her son. She rocked backwards and forwards, wailing. Do I really need to watch this I thought? I switched over and was subjected to the woeful groans of East Enders. That's enough, I thought. As I was about to take my cup of tea into the conservatory, my son Steve, who had been quietly studying the floor, suddenly raised his head and demanded to know why I had rung the BBC. ‘BBC! What are you talking about?’ ‘You know,’ he retorted. ‘You rang the BBC to tell them what a lazy sod I am; they've been broadcasting it all day.’ My heart missed a beat. I went cold, my stomach turned – I had become a carer.
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