David Woodgett

Christmas Day in a care home is often thought to be the saddest shift of the year: a place where staff trudge in reluctantly through the dark and cold, while the rest of the country unwraps presents and gets merry; where residents sit quietly, reminiscing about the happiness of Christmases past. And yet, for those of us who work these shifts year after year, that idea bears little resemblance to the truth. It is, strangely, one of the most joyous shifts to work. There is grief and gratitude, absence and presence, memory and forgetfulness, and moments of surprising hilarity. Someone will say something outrageous. Someone will fall asleep halfway through pudding. Someone will insist they have already had lunch or get away with having two. Care home Christmases are more traditional.

It began when one of the care home residents I look after asked me to take her picture for her Facebook account. Harmless enough – until I noticed the photo had been requested by Michael Bublé. The messages were affectionate and convincing and before long she was being asked for personal information. I had to find a way to gently break it to her that this was very unlikely to be Mr Bublé, which led to tears, disbelief and embarrassment. In the end, I blocked the scammer on her account – along with several other suspicious profiles. The Mental Capacity Act’s third principle states that everyone has the right to make a bad decision. However, it’s best to stop such things before we start discussing the law. This story isn’t unusual.

I once asked a 105-year-old woman if she had any advice. What lessons had she learned throughout all those years? She paused and reached for the cup of tea I’d brought her. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said and took a sip. And that was that. I’d half expected my mind to be blown, to leave her room practically floating, to hear an illuminating sentence that would unlock life and help me understand how to live better. I’d prepared for enlightenment and received humility. I work in a care home where the average age of its residents is 88. I’ve heard many extraordinary stories from a prisoner of war, a monk, a friend of Frank Sinatra’s. A nurse once told me: ‘The key to happiness is giving it away.’ A hairdresser advised: ‘Be willing to talk.