Phone calls at 5.30am are never a good thing. They just aren't. I mean, to the best of my knowledge the Lotto office keeps regular hours. The Nobel prize committee may operate on Swedish time and ring at all hours but as that is never going to be a problem I'm faced with my default is fearing the worst when the mobile buzzes at stupid o'clock. Seeing my elderly neighbour Margaret's name light up did nothing to ease the anxiety, although in my sleepy haze I did think that at least she was still able to pick up the phone so it could be worse. She'd had a fall, she said. She was on the floor unable to get up. We've been there before and I know what to do. Grab the spare key, find someone able to help lift and go to the rescue. It played out as it has too many times before except for two things. This time there was a nasty big hole in the wall where her head struck and this time she said she thought she needed a panic alarm. Seize the moment, I thought. As soon as it was office hours I was back with the laptop and the phone. I took the dogs as backup and while Rumple licked her feet we ordered an alarm. I even paid for it (she will reinburse) because Margaret doesn't believe in fancy modern things like credit cards. I mean, she doesn't believe in toasters, kettles, radios or microwaves either and I learned long ago there's no point in arguing the toss. You just work around it and wait for her to decide it's her idea and then pounce. The alarm will be with her on Monday. It won't stop the falls. It will offer some comfort.
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