Carer Needed

Posted by Lara Masters at 09:27 on 5 Sep 2008

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I'm looking for a new carer. I say the word 'carer' through gritted teeth, it's a patronising and inaccurate description; 'carers' are no more caring than other people or I wouldn't find myself carer-less in the first place.

My last PA (as I prefer to say), Tabby, was a dream. It wasn't that there weren't times when she left the front door wide open when we went out or managed to dismantle the 'immobiliser chip' from the car-key so we couldn't start the engine on a crucial Britain's Missing Top Model filming day (and then couldn't get a taxi because using an electric wheelchair makes me tantamount to a leper in the eyes of taxi drivers), but she was like a best friend. And when someone is helping you wash your bits and other unmentionables, a best friend is so much better than a butch Slovakian matron who insists on wearing latex gloves for handling.  

One of the essential requirements of my PA is that they love dancing (I go clubbing regularly and am on the dance floor all night) and that's more important than them being able to cook or do the Heimlich Manoeuvre. I attend a lot of social events and 'network', so they also have to be socially adept and not say inappropriate things or ask the cameraman who is about to film me if he has ever had a threesome. Or if he would like to have one. Yes, that has happened.

Tabby was easy-going, funny and, with a Masters in Primatology, could tell you anything you ever wanted to know about the Putty-Nosed monkey or the Bonobos who bonk non-stop (mothers and fathers, fathers and sons, sisters and brothers, they're all at it.) Since Tabby left to feast on weevil-infested rice and examine the composition of monkey faeces in some undiscovered African enclave, I have had some very interesting applicants for the position.

Even though my ad stipulates 'Female Carer Needed', several men have sent me their vitals - possibly because I put a pic of me in the ad wearing a red mini top hat and red lipstick (to clear up the assumption that if you are disabled and looking for a carer you are at least 95 and just need someone to administer tea and biscuits on the hour and watch Antiques Roadshow).

One application I received was from a Bulgarian bouncer who wore a black tracksuit in his photo and was straddling some railway lines, arms crossed and wearing a very menacing expression. Perhaps he took 'carer' literally and thought I needed protection being a vulnerable disabled woman. Another rather cute guy sent me a photo of him in shorts, casually reclining on a sand dune and said he was, 'looking to get rid of his girlfriend. Ha ha.' I also received a huge document from a heavily bearded Pakistani man with a six-page CV reeling off every imaginable skill including his licence to drive heavy duty vehicles (perhaps he supposed this might come in handy when carting my electric wheelchair around?) plus a tranche of essays such as 'Women in Christianity and Islam' and ' Islam and Terrorism'. Under 'Hobbies and Interests' he listed 'pets'.

I like pets too, but I think I will keep up my search.

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