WET WASHING

This evening I get a call from CareLine. Mother has been pressing the emergency button (on a chord around her neck) repeatedly. CareLine phoned her number, but no response, so summoned an ambulance; they’re just letting me know as Next of Kin.
    
An ambulance – she won’t like that, even if she’s dying. Especially if she’s dying. I rush over. 
Outside her housing complex I see the First Responders unit– they’re leaving.
 
—Excuse me, have you just attended Myra Miller?
 
—Yes.  Don’t worry, duck, she’s alright.
 
—What happened?
 
—She couldn’t get her laundry out the machine.
 
I start to laugh. I know I shouldn’t, but it’s the sight of these two burly blokes bristling with  life-saving equipment and the thought that they rushed down the corridor … to rescue wet washing. 

Good-naturedly they explain that Mother thought she was summoning a carer (Lately she forgets how to operate appliances, and being deaf, she didn’t hear the phone ringing in her flat.) I apologise profusely for the inconvenience. 
 
—No worries, duck, we were only up the town.
 
—I’m sure my mother is very embarrassed.

She's forgetting how to operate appliances.
Even very familiar ones.

 —Aye, bless ‘er. Offered to make us a cuppa and a Christmas cake each next year.