We were getting my disabled mother dressed, or changed and ready for bed - I no longer remember which.
It's an effort, for her, as much as for the carers; and when my dad does it, occasionally with my help (as used to be necessary over weekends and holidays), the effort multiplies all round.
Anyway. Eventually we get there and she's ready - for the day, or for the night.
"You are so beautiful!" my dad cries, having stood back to admire our achievement.
She slumps in the wheelchair, dejected by her helplessness.
"If only it helped," she retorts glumly, "the beauty".
"Oh," he fires back, "It helps me! Me it helps that you are beautiful!"
And so Beauty gets to smile again, and everybody can go on.
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