My godmother’s carer was visiting when I arrived. She checked her pills, put her lunch under clingfilm in the fridge and chucked away last night’s uneaten dinner. The minute I entered the flat I smelt urine, not a single mishap either: her bedside carpet was sodden. I asked the carer and she shrugged. Not unkindly, but this wasn’t within her remit. And now she had to go.


If you are old, poor, housebound, with no regular contact except the saintly neighbours who do your shopping, this is how you may end up. Except even this meagre assistance from a rotating…