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January 26, 2009
Around about 1988, I was somewhere with Cheryl Lancastle and one of her housemates—can't recall his name—and I told them a tale.

I told them about when my father's mother—"Nan"—had been in a nursing home—Hillsdale—around about 1979; and she'd phoned my father to complain about the conditions.

My mother went to the front door and rang the bell.

My father said, "Gotta go, there's someone at the door."

I broke down telling the story. Cheryl's housemate, angry (why I'll never know), said, "Pray to God you don't wind up like that!" and stomped out.