One old lady wants to go outside. Her cries grow ever more plaintive: “I need some fresh air, help me.” Then, more urgently: “I’m dying! Let me out!” The carers are endlessly patient: “We’re doing the medicine round, Edna. You’ll have to wait a minute.” She’s just been out for a cigarette, but is restless again.
I reflect that this will be me, if I end up in a care home. Driven mad by the sweltering rooms, frustrated by the combination lock on the door. Just before I leave, Edna is taken outside in a wheelchair and I pass her on the patio sitting alone, clattering a table to be let back in. She doesn’t want to be inside or outside. She wants the freedom, which infirmity has stolen, to choose.