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 The story to follow is about me and my Dad and how our relationship, and lives changed with the onset of his Alzheimers. How he went from being a fit healthy man in retirement to becoming confused, vulnerable, and being prayed upon by crooks and the unscrupulous.

My Dad was born in Ireland on 2 July 1924, the 7th in a family of ten, no shoes till he was 10. He came to England as an economic migrant in 1949. He  started working in  mostly manual labour but always had a job. He trained to be a guard on British Rail. He eventually worked his way up to become a lab technician at Wellcome research. He was a gregarious character, fun, musical and liked a laugh. He was eccentric in an Irish way, and it would have not been unusual for him to make a joke or do some strange and sometimes embarrassing things.

He retired from Wellcome research as a lab technician and was proud of what he had achieved. He continued to work in part time jobs, and took up bowling as a new sport and social activity. He lived on his own in South London. My parents parted when I was 9, they remained friends I am an only child.

 I live in Brighton, so my visits to my Dad were not so frequent. In hindsight the first signs of his illness were of obsessive behavior. When I would visit him he would count while washing his hands and drying them, and count the turns to turn the tap off. He started to make me eat snacks over a washing up bowl so not to drop crumbs.

When he came to visit me in Brighton on one occasion he announced to my friends who he had never met before that he had just killed a policeman. They were obviously shocked. There was an embarrassing silence until they realised he was joking. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to come up with in his words some nonsense now and again, which also made it difficult to spot the change in his behaviour. I also had to start showing him the way out of Brighton to the motorway, as he couldn’t remember the route.

 These incidents flagged up concerns, but he got home to London ok and seemed fine to talk to.  I had just started a new business had a one year old daughter and my partner was pregnant with my second daughter. So plenty to keep me busy and I really didn’t know what was happening.

 Life moved on and over the phone my Dad sounded ok, my second daughter was due to be born at Christmas 1995. I was also expecting my Dad to come for that Christmas day but things didn’t turn out as planned.

My second Daughter was born late Christmas eve 1995. When I called my Dad on Christmas day there was no reply, I kept calling and didn’t get a reply for a couple of days, I was very worried. He sounded very confused and spoke of people coming into his house. I immediately went up to London.

 When I arrived it’s was shocking how much he had changed from the last time I saw him. I took him back to Brighton to meet his new grand daughter. Over the next couple of days I tried to piece together what had been going on in his life.

 I didn’t feel happy about him returning to his home in London after Christmas, but we had a two bedroom flat, with two small children, so in reality he couldn’t stay with us.

I took my Dad back to his home in south London, and started to try and work out what had been going on, and who might be coming into his house.

I had to make him safe and he didn’t seem to have any money. I found his bankbook and what I found was shocking. He had retired with a lump sum, not huge but enough to keep him going. He was always very generous with the money he had. He had over the last week withdrawn about £300 every day, until there wasn’t a lot left of his savings. He had been taking lump sums out on a regular basis. My Dad was no longer able to remember going to the bank, or having taken any money out. I visited the bank and found out he had been going in accompanied by some one else and had taken out his limit every day.

I visited his bowling club to see if I could get any information. I found out he had been banned because he had become aggressive and pushed over one of the other bowlers. I also found out from a concerned guy who ran the canteen, that he had noticed the change in my Dad, and that also a teenage boy often turned up looking for my Dad.

 It soon became apparent that somebody was preying on my Dads vulnerability. I had to some how make him safe and protect him, but I lived 50 miles way.

 I managed to speak to my Dads doctor and get him seen, although he was confused he was not a danger to himself and unfortunately there was no instant help. How ever on advice from the Alzheimer’s society I managed to get power of attorney so I could manage his money, and affairs.

 My Dad would often call me in a panic because he had no money in his wallet. I could not be there to protect him, and I knew some one was coming into his flat and either taking or getting him to give them what ever he had.

I would leave money hidden around his living room so that when he called me in a panic, I could tell him to check behind the picture on the wall, or behind the clock and there would be a £20 note. This way I knew that he would always have some money until the next time I came, and who ever was coming in would not know.

 I was also worried about my Dad’s driving and being safe. I spoke to him about this and took his car keys home with me, which he understood.  By the time I had got home he was calling me asking where his car keys were. He eventually found a spare set. His BMW was his pride and joy. I got a call soon after, that he had driven around a roundabout the wrong way and nearly hit a bus. It was now crucial that I stopped him driving. I brought his car down to Brighton.

 I ended up doing some detective work myself, and soon found out from the people who owned the local cafe that my Dad frequented that there was a teenage boy who had been seen with my Dad. On arriving at my Dad’s house on one occasion the door was open and I came in to find my Dad there but also a boy about 15 years old. I asked him who he was, he said he was my Dads friend. My Dad didn’t know who he was. I told him to leave and not return.

Whilst looking through my Dads chequebook, I found a cheque that this boy had made out to himself but left in the chequebook. It gave me something solid to take to the police. The boy was arrested and cautioned, it turned out he was a refuge from Somalia, living in care. I do not think he was the only person involved in exploiting my Dad, but he was the only one we could prove.

 I gradually managed to get the local social services involved. They would visit my Dad, and make sure he was ok. This was a huge relief for me, and my Dad was picked up and visited a day centre.

Life went on like this for some time until my Dad’s condition worsened and he was eventually sectioned and taken in to a secure hospital. For the first time he was medically diagnosed as having Alzheimers and it would not possible for him to return home.

 I found a nursing home in Hove that had a place for him. He was discharged from Hospital into their care. It was good to have him safe and close by where I could easily visit him. He came to us for Sunday dinner. He got to see his grand daughters, and be part of our lives for a while. He did go walkabout a few times and it wasn’t uncommon to get a call from the nursing home telling me he had gone missing. Thankfully we always found him safe. 

I got a call one Sunday evening that my Dad had been taken into hospital he died the next day.

 My Dad never discussed or spoke to anybody as far as I know about the frightening changes that he experienced. When I examined his diaries I discovered that he had been using these as his memory to record the days events to look back on. One moving thing he said to me at the nursing home was that he wished that I was his Dad.

"What is the height of nonsense? an elephant hanging over the edge of a cliff with his tail tied to a daisy" Connie O'Neill 

 Me now.

I got my road bike in September 2012. Inspired by my stepson Ben who  got me out  on the Sussex lanes enjoying the end of the summer evenings keeping him company. The local lanes became more intimate on two wheels. The bike also became a cathartic tool to help me through some difficult personal and business problems. Rolling through the lanes became my salvation.

I maybe a newbie to helmets and lycra, but like all those of mine and nearby generations, the bicycle has been an integral part of our upbringing and lives.

As a child of the sixties and seventies we lived out on the streets on our bikes. The paperboy returned me home unconscious after I rode into a lamppost and knocked myself out just off of stabilizers. I rode into a ditch full of stinging nettles wearing only shorts to be rescued by a passing nurse who again returned me home. I fell through the garage window trying to ride a bike far too big for me. My first job and business was as paperboy using my bike.

As we grew up our bikes evolved with us, drop handle bars, dirt bikes, spud tires, cow horn handle bars, ape hangers, the unfunctional chopper, all essential for the freedom we had available, because staying at home was not an option.

The bike reappeared when I moved to London as a young adult, and it became a way to move and see the city. Daily journeys to work across the river from south to north. Visiting friends around the south circular, and managing to do the journey at night with no hands. I was also able to reconnect with my Dad at this point as I was now within cycling distance to visit him, having not had him in my life during my teens.

I now plan to train through out the year and get my fitness and mileage up to complete the Ride London 100 miles in less than 9 hours.