Episode 71 -The Spy Who Loved WiFi…

The Spy Who Loved WiFi (And Left Me for Dead)…

There’s a special place in hell for people who take advantage of dementia patients. And an even darker corner for sisters like Fanny McFox, who see it as an opportunity to install a 24/7 surveillance system in your dying father’s room while you survive on coffee, wine, and pure, uncut spite.

Back in those days, my life was a circus sideshow held together with caffeine, denial, and an ancient baby monitor that Bully fished out of the attic. Yep. A literal baby monitor. Because when your Dad’s mind has gone full Twilight Zone, you don’t get to sleep anymore. You get to sit bolt upright at 3am to the sound of crackly static, followed by ‘The house is on fire! or ‘Who’s that man in the corner?‘ (spoiler: it was a coat rack).

And then there was the dog.
A lumpy, wheezy old man whom Dad and I loved, but he looked like a deflated beanbag chair with legs. Half-blind, mostly deaf, and prone to sleep-barking at inanimate objects. If he wasn’t snoring like a chainsaw, he was growling at thin air or trying to hump the washing machine.

Me?
I was a walking corpse.
Running on bad coffee, three hours of fractured sleep, and the promise of wine on a Friday night. Because Friday night was my night. Supposedly. Until it wasn’t.

Enter Fanny McFox.

In swoops my scheming, opportunistic, long-distance sibling with a ‘bright idea.’ A WiFi camera in Dad’s room.
‘For his safety,’ she said.
‘For your peace of mind,’ she said.
Like the Dementia Channel needed an upgrade.

But she wasn’t finished. Oh no.
She went full James Bond, complete with a WiFi booster, because God forbid there would be a moment of blurry footage when Dad started shouting at the dog to fetch the invisible postman, or warning me about the ghost in the ceiling.

And guess who paid for it?
Dad.
Out of the same account he thought still had money saved for ‘a rainy day.’
Poor guy didn’t even know what a WiFi camera was. If you’d told him it was a talking toaster, he’d have asked for a slice.

I should’ve seen it coming.
Fanny McFox never did anything that didn’t benefit herself.
She wasn’t watching to make sure Dad was okay. She was watching to make sure I didn’t fuck it up. That I wasn’t drinking wine out of a cereal bowl by 4pm or giving the dog leftover birthday cake. (Which I absolutely was.)

At first, I thought – maybe this will help.
Maybe I can actually sleep knowing Fanny Cam’s got eyes on him.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t.

Because now, instead of just Dad shouting ‘FIRE!’ at 3am, I had a tiny, blinking red light in the corner of the room – the all-seeing, judging eye of Mordor. I swear I could feel her watching. Probably sipping coffee in her matching pajamas, judging my unwashed hair and the fact that I was talking to the dog like a co-conspirator.

‘The Queen’s in the wardrobe again, Heff,’ I’d whisper.
‘Bark twice for yes.’

Eventually, I stopped pretending.
I just started narrating my slow, mental collapse to the Fanny Cam.

‘Evening, Little Sister. Patient’s alive. Caretaker’s dead inside. I ate the last KitKat. The dog’s snoring like Satan’s accordion. Over and out.’

The neighbors were no better. Mrs. Doyle next door kept leaving me home – baked scones with notes like ‘You’re a saint, love‘ while secretly peeking through the hedge like she was waiting for the day I finally cracked and buried the WiFi booster in the garden.

And through it all, Fanny McFox was nowhere to be seen.
Too busy ‘working’ or ‘looking into care options’ – which roughly translates to scrolling through Pinterest for kitchen renovation ideas and occasionally ringing me up to suggest things like ‘You should try lavender oil for stress. Lavender oil, Fanny?
Lavender won’t fix this shit-show.

You ever had a grown man in underpants chase you through the house with a spatula at 4am because he thinks you’re a burglar?
You ever had a dog bark at a teabag for three hours straight?
You ever cried into a glass of Pinot Grigio while giving a WiFi camera the middle finger?

No?
Then don’t talk to me about lavender oil.

I still did Friday wine night though.
Because if you’re going to be spied on while your dad argues with invisible intruders and the dog sleep-humps the laundry basket, you may as well do it drunk.

Somewhere around week four, I half expected Granny Frass to materialize in the kitchen, wagging a ghostly finger.

‘You should’ve buried her in the back garden years ago, love. Right next to that WiFi booster.’

And you know what? I’d have done it.

Fanny McFox – what the actual fuck is wrong with you?
I’m half-convinced you’re still watching.

And if you are…
Go on.
Send another WiFi booster.
I’ll plug it straight up my arse.

Lesson of the Day:

Just because someone says it’s ‘for your peace of mind’ doesn’t mean it is.

Sometimes it’s for their control, their convenience, or their guilty conscience dressed up as concern. Know the difference. And when you find yourself under surveillance by people who wouldn’t last five minutes in your shoes, pour another glass, talk to the dog, and remember: you get to tell the story.

Because in the end, the watchers might forget.
But the survivor always remembers.

Over and out.