Story inspired by a snippet I head on the radio: Regulations should mean no more than eight patients to one nurse to ensure safe care.

"No. I'm not doing it. I'm looking after too many people as it is. It's getting dangerous!" Trudy said. "You give me one more and that will be the one that breaks the camel's back!"

"More like the carer's back," I said, laughing. Mind you, I knew where she was coming from, and I wasn't willing to take on anyone else either. Overworked and most definitely underpaid, we'd been rushed off our feet all day. I don't think I'd even stopped for a cuppa, never mind a lunch break. I never knew old people could be so exhausting, especially when they spent most of their lives in front of the box. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if we pulled the plug on it. Would there be a revolt, grannies with zimmer frames launching their feeble bodies down the corridors in anger? Would the one old man in the corner breathe a sigh of relief, pull out a book and enjoy the peace and quiet? Or would they not even notice, but simply sit there still as tombstones, waiting for another dismal day to pass, waiting for the moment when they would be put to bed, hoping that tonight might just be the night they closed their eyes one last time?

Woking here was hard work. Yeah, there were perks now and then, 'specially when some old biddy wanted to say thank you to you in her own special way. That always made it worth it. But most days it was wipe an arse here, blow a nose there, yes Mrs Jones I know your daughter loves you, you've told me a million times already. Jeez. And now we were being asked to care for someone else - George. He'd be a friend for Frank, anyway. He could do with some male company, poor bugger. Stuck in here with all these rancid old women, moaning about their hips and the weather and the food. Not that the food's up to much, I agree. Watery mash, tinned peas and some lump of grey gristle I wouldn't feed to my dog, they'd had tonight. I might be skint but at least I ate well. Sometimes I wondered if the cook was trying to reduce numbers in her own unique way. Couldn't blame her really. Thirteen hours a day she worked here, and she had a young family to look after.

So. George. No idea what he'd be like. A charmer, perhaps. The old biddies would love that. Might stop them moaning for a while at least. We'd find out soon enough; he was meant to be here any minute. In fact, was that a car I heard pull up? Yep. Jag, eh? Now that's not what you expect to see. Normally it's Rovers or those Ford Galaxy things, hubby and wife and kids and dog all crammed in to see granny off to her new home. But a Jag ... Now that's a family with class. And style. And money. And they're not likely to leave dear old Grandad George without a penny or two, are they? Let's get a look at him. Hmm. Two sticks. Frail. Looks a bit confused. Likely to be forgetful too. Probably won't remember where he left his wallet, or how much was in it either. Perks of the job, like I said.

"Trudy? Trude .... That new patient that's coming in? You've got far too much on your plate already. I'll take him on board, don't you worry. Just you leave him to me."