Elvis lives

I met Elvis yesterday. He was black, and his accent was more Gateshead than Graceland but he said he was Elvis. And I believed him. He serenaded me with Love Me Tender, put his scarf around my neck and strutted off to the day room to get some biscuits. A few weeks ago he'd been nothing, now he was The King. He really was. You meet all sorts in this job and sometimes it's hard to keep a straight face. One woman last week was convinced she was Napoleon and spent the afternoon shuffling round on her knees trying to invade Russia, which was difficult as the kitchen is locked after 5pm. In the end I made a French flag to hang over her bed and she seemed content with that bit of diplomacy. I shouldn't laugh but deep down, I know laughter is the only thing that keeps me on this side of the curtain. If I spent my time worrying about them too much I'd drive myself just as mad as....no, that's not fair. They're not mad. That's a lazy term. They're lost. The amount that gets thrown at us all its a wonder more of us don't lose our way. They're lost, confused and scared. So, of course, why would they want to be themselves when they could be the Emperor of France. Not Elvis though. He didn't just think he was him, he *was* him. There was no screaming or shouting when one of the porters called him Malcolm as he handed him his Ovaltine. He just smiled this huge Vegas smile, took the mug and said 'thank you very much'. He didn't need to protest or declaim his true identity. He owned it.

This morning was tough. Elvis left the building. No, that's not me being poetic, he escaped. Found him in a bingo hall singing 'Viva Las Vegas'.