“You don’t have dementia,” I said. “Is that what you’re trying to say?” “I’m not dementia,” he insisted, wagging a finger in my face. “All right,” I said. “You’re not dementia. But look, I don’t think it would do any harm for a doctor to take a look at you.” “Only if I can go to him,” he said. “Or her. I hear there are some wonderful lady doctors these days. Whatever’s next?” he added, laughing. “They’ll be driving buses and allowed to vote if someone doesn’t do something to stop them!”
