‘Mrs Davison had a fall and broke her hip has been moved to a care home you have to help Genghis’ was the exact message Fionnuala sent me on WhatsApp.

Now, I like Mrs Davison, for all that I know her, and I know it’s usually wise to do as Genghis says, but I wondered how I ended up being volunteered.

Turns out Mrs Davison doesn’t have any relatives nearby and, being as delicate as I can, wouldn’t have that many people from her church in this particular part of Co Tyrone.

Just a bit of context for any new readers: Mrs Davison is Genghis’s neighbour, an elderly widow, and he is kinder to her than most people are to their own mothers. I have been summoned on a few occasions to help her out.

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Genghis, meanwhile, is my wife Fionnuala’s beloved uncle, real name Brian McCann, who is one of the most pig-headed, ignorant uillean pipers I have ever met: a fag-smoking, hard-drinking bachelor who thinks he’s Clint Eastwood.

I buzzed the bell at Mrs Davison’s care home and a Filipino nurse answered and led me down to where she was perched up in a bed in a room overlooking a courtyard. She was delighted to see me and I asked the nurse for a vase for the tulips.

The nurse was as sweet as sugar, with a huge grin that showed her pink, healthy gums, and she quickly returned and declared the flowers to be “delicious”.

I winked at Mrs Davison and when we were alone, she filled me in on what had happened.

She had just been walking through the kitchen and without warning, she hit the deck with a thud and must have blacked out. When she came to, she was in agony and unable to move or get to the phone.

It was only because Brian – her words – “had called in like he always does” that she was discovered: he phoned an ambulance, didn’t move her and told her all the gossip from round and about to distract her from the pain.

“Thank God it didn’t happen a few minutes earlier when I was coming down the stairs.”

“Absolutely. Do you know why you blacked out?”

“No. They are doing more tests.”

“And what do you think of in here?”

I looked around: the room was brown and dowdy but clean and not un-homely.

“It’s nice.” She was putting on a brave face.

“The staff are mostly Chinese, I think, but they are very kind.”

I didn’t correct her cross-race recognition bias and a moment later, another nurse appeared and said they were taking Mrs Davison to the bathroom.

I said I was going anyway, but Mrs Davison said they would only be a minute and I could wait in the day room. I saw a hopeful expression in her sad, brown eyes and said no problem, I’m in no rush.

I decided to explore the place and overall, it wasn’t too bad. It was kinda like a cross between a hospital and a creche, with a bit of cross-channel ferry thrown in.

It reminded me of the Linton Travel Tavern Alan Partridge stayed in, but without the all-you-can-eat buffet.

All the rooms had the doors open and I peered in discreetly at first, but bolder as I moved on, to see old people in bed either not watching The Chase on TVs with the volume down, or up full blast.

When I got to the day room there were three residents sitting in a row with their heads hanging down, colouring-in books on trays beside them, and they came to life when I walked in: like chicks in a nest.

After saying goodbye to Mrs Davison and promising to call back soon, I headed to the door at the front, past all the open doors again, and found I couldn’t get out.

A Filipino nurse appeared and smiled. “I’ll put the code in,” he said, covering it with his hand.

“Must keep it secret.”

His teeth were artic white. “Or the residents might try to run away.”

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