Major Bristol care provider celebrates its 100th birthday
A major care provider has marked its 100th birthday with a large garden party.Residents of St Monica Trust's villages and care homes celebrated with cream cakes, strawberries and glasses of Pimm's, as well as music from brass quintet and poetry readings.The party was held at Cote Lane Retirement Village in Westbury on Trym, where the charity opened its doors in June 1925.David Williams, head of the trust, which has care homes across Bristol and North Somerset, praised the residents, saying: "They volunteer in the organisation, they run the shops, they're even brewing their own beer at the moment!"
He said the trust "believe in contribution" and "want to enable people to flourish by allowing them to develop relationships".VIP attendees at the summer party – where temperatures hit 30C – included the Lord Lieutenant of Bristol, Peaches Golding.
Monica Carp, who has lived at Cote Lane for almost 20 years, spoke about the benefits of activities at the trust."You get what you give in," she said. "You can do what you like or you can help to organise events. I organised a craft group which I called 'pin and needles'."The charitable foundation works with older people across the west of England to improve their quality of life.
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The Guardian
32 minutes ago
- The Guardian
Notes from a nursing home: ‘We don't speak of sadness here'
I sit in my room in this nursing home near Sydney, a box of four walls that holds all I now call my own. Two suitcases could carry it: a few clothes, some worn books, a scattering of trinkets. The thought strikes me as both stark and oddly freeing. Not long ago my world was vast, a house with rooms I rarely entered, a garden that sprawled beyond need, two cars idling in the driveway, one barely driven. Now it's gone. The house, the cars, the cartons overflowing in the garage, all sold, given away or abandoned. A heart attack and dwindling funds brought me here two and a half years ago. Family ties, thin as they are, keep me from moving anywhere away from here. I don't resent it. I've seen the world, jungles, deserts, cities that glittered under foreign skies. That hunger is sated. This is a different journey, one of stillness, of finding meaning in what remains. The nursing home is no idyll, no glossy promise of golden years. It's a place of routine, of quiet necessity. Mornings begin with carers, gentle, hurried women who tidy my bed, adjust pillows, offer a smile before moving on. Tea and toast settle as I sit by the window. The air carries the clean sting of antiseptic, mingling with the chatter of birds outside. There's peace in these moments, before the home stirs fully awake. The staff do their work well, though they're stretched thin. They check on us, ask after our aches, offer kind words that linger like a faint warmth. Activities fill the day, card games, a singalong. I join when I feel like it, which is less often than I might. The choice is mine, and that's enough. The front doors creak as relatives arrive, their faces a mix of cheer and strain. Some hide tears, we all pretend not to see. We don't speak of sadness here. It's a silent agreement, a way to keep the days bearable. Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads The residents are a varied lot. Some are old, their bodies bent by years. Others are younger, broken by minds that betray them. A woman down the hall clutches a photograph, her son a rare visitor, his life too crowded for her. She speaks of him with no anger, only a flat resignation. A man, his eyes dim with addiction's toll, mutters of a sister who never calls. I listen, nod, share a story of my own. We understand each other here, bound by the shared weight of being left behind. This place is a mirror, reflecting a truth we'd rather not face. Families, once close, find it easier to place their own in these clean, quiet rooms. It's not cruelty, not always. Caring for the old, the broken, the lost-it, demands time, patience, a surrender most cannot afford. So they sign papers, appoint guardians and let the system take over. The nursing home becomes a vault, sealing away what disrupts the orderly march of life. Out of sight, out of mind. Yet I wonder if, in the quiet of their nights, those families feel the shadow of what they've set aside. Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion I walk the corridors, dim and smelling of antiseptic and something less tangible – forgotten promises, perhaps. Residents sit, staring at walls or televisions that drone with voices no one heeds. Many wrestle with dementia, their thoughts scattering like ash. Others bear scars of choices or chance, their lives eroded to this point. A few, changed by illness or time, became strangers to those who loved them. To care for such people is hard, unglamorous work. Easier to let them fade into these walls. Yet there's life here too. I find it in small things: a book that holds my attention, sunlight warming my room, a laugh shared over a memory. The community binds us. We talk of old days, of children grown distant, of the world beyond these walls. There's comfort in that, a kind of strength. The local shops are my horizon now but I don't mind. I've seen enough of the world to know its pleasures are fleeting. Here I have my memories, these people, this quiet. The day stretches before me, simple and unhurried, the sun climbing higher, the air still fresh. There's no need to rush, no call to chase what's gone. This is my life now, pared to its bones, and it's enough. The light shifts on the wall, and I breathe it in. It's a good day. Better than most. Andrew McKean is a writer and a resident of an aged care facility in New South Wales, Australia
The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
I'm worried my autistic son is going to struggle socially in his new school
My son is starting secondary school in September. He is the only child from his primary transitioning to a selective grammar school. He has always struggled with friendships and I feel this is due to his autism. He is high-achieving academically. I don't want him to change who he is or feel as if he can't be himself. At the same time I know he can be standoffish and overwhelming when he is so focused on his own interests. He has just been invited to one of his new classmates' birthday parties. He was shocked and grateful to be invited, and it was heartbreaking. I don't want him to be isolated in his new school and I don't know how to help him to be ready and open to a brand new social setting. I would really appreciate any help or advice you could give. It's wonderful that you are so thoughtful, and I'm sure your son appreciates having a father who considers his feelings. Most parents, whether their children are neurotypical or not, worry about the big change from primary to secondary. I went to UKCP-registered child and adolescent psychotherapist Lucy Fuller and the National Autistic Society (NAS) which provided some useful links (see below). Fuller thought the fact that your son was invited to this party shows 'he is being held in mind even before he starts at his new school, which is something special. Whether he goes or not, he has already made a contact with someone he will be starting secondary school with.' That he seems pleased is a really good sign and I hope he goes to the party. Every autistic person is different, but what's important is that your son feels he can be himself. That's hard for everyone starting school because teenagers are primed to want to fit in. As for being standoffish when focused, that isn't so unusual in young people. Children can feel isolated when it comes to their feelings, so it's important your son realises that every child who is starting school – no matter how they present – will be nervous; every child (and new teacher) will get lost in the school; and everyone makes mistakes – it's how we develop as people. Fuller recommends that your son visit the school, if he hasn't already. And if he has, that you find a good time to chat 'about what it was like for him, what did he see or hear that interested him? What made him anxious?' Children love the practical details, so a rundown can help. What will his new mornings look like? What will the timings be? How will he get to school? Where will he put his stuff? Some people I know with autistic children find showing pictures of new places can help. Fuller said: 'As he's a bright student, it's also good to talk to him about how the classwork will be more interesting and challenging, and this will be a positive part of the transition.' She asked: 'Are there any clubs or activities where he can comfortably build relationships with smaller groups?' The NAS suggests contacting the school to find out if they operate a 'peer buddy' system, someone who can be paired up with your son who is already at the school, at least for the first few weeks. They also recommend you read the Autism Education Trust's School Transitions Parent Guide. 'There will be other students with diagnosed (and undiagnosed) autism,' Fuller adds. 'And you can ask the school about specific support for your son, which should include places and people he can go to when he needs support or feels overwhelmed.' Every child I've ever known has had a hiccup at school, but the important thing is your son has an engaged father who can help him over these bumps in a way that helps him grow. I would also ask how your own time at school was as this can be a particularly triggering – and I use the word advisedly – time for parents. Make sure you separate out your anxieties from your son's. Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion NAS has a dedicated parents and carers section on their online community where parents can ask questions, share experiences and make connections. It is free to access and join. Know Yourself resources for autistic teenagers helps them explore their identity and interests: Every week, Annalisa Barbieri addresses a personal problem sent in by a reader. If you would like advice from Annalisa, please send your problem to Annalisa regrets she cannot enter into personal correspondence. Submissions are subject to our terms and conditions. The latest series of Annalisa's podcast is available here. Comments on this piece are pre-moderated to ensure the discussion remains on the topics raised by the article. Please be aware that there may be a short delay in comments appearing on the site.
The Guardian
6 hours ago
- The Guardian
Notes from a nursing home: ‘We don't speak of sadness here'
I sit in my room in this nursing home near Sydney, a box of four walls that holds all I now call my own. Two suitcases could carry it: a few clothes, some worn books, a scattering of trinkets. The thought strikes me as both stark and oddly freeing. Not long ago my world was vast, a house with rooms I rarely entered, a garden that sprawled beyond need, two cars idling in the driveway, one barely driven. Now it's gone. The house, the cars, the cartons overflowing in the garage, all sold, given away or abandoned. A heart attack and dwindling funds brought me here two and a half years ago. Family ties, thin as they are, keep me from moving anywhere away from here. I don't resent it. I've seen the world, jungles, deserts, cities that glittered under foreign skies. That hunger is sated. This is a different journey, one of stillness, of finding meaning in what remains. The nursing home is no idyll, no glossy promise of golden years. It's a place of routine, of quiet necessity. Mornings begin with carers, gentle, hurried women who tidy my bed, adjust pillows, offer a smile before moving on. Tea and toast settle as I sit by the window. The air carries the clean sting of antiseptic, mingling with the chatter of birds outside. There's peace in these moments, before the home stirs fully awake. The staff do their work well, though they're stretched thin. They check on us, ask after our aches, offer kind words that linger like a faint warmth. Activities fill the day, card games, a singalong. I join when I feel like it, which is less often than I might. The choice is mine, and that's enough. The front doors creak as relatives arrive, their faces a mix of cheer and strain. Some hide tears, we all pretend not to see. We don't speak of sadness here. It's a silent agreement, a way to keep the days bearable. Sign up for a weekly email featuring our best reads The residents are a varied lot. Some are old, their bodies bent by years. Others are younger, broken by minds that betray them. A woman down the hall clutches a photograph, her son a rare visitor, his life too crowded for her. She speaks of him with no anger, only a flat resignation. A man, his eyes dim with addiction's toll, mutters of a sister who never calls. I listen, nod, share a story of my own. We understand each other here, bound by the shared weight of being left behind. This place is a mirror, reflecting a truth we'd rather not face. Families, once close, find it easier to place their own in these clean, quiet rooms. It's not cruelty, not always. Caring for the old, the broken, the lost-it, demands time, patience, a surrender most cannot afford. So they sign papers, appoint guardians and let the system take over. The nursing home becomes a vault, sealing away what disrupts the orderly march of life. Out of sight, out of mind. Yet I wonder if, in the quiet of their nights, those families feel the shadow of what they've set aside. I walk the corridors, dim and smelling of antiseptic and something less tangible – forgotten promises perhaps. Residents sit, staring at walls or televisions that drone with voices no one heeds. Many wrestle with dementia, their thoughts scattering like ash. Others bear scars of choices or chance, their lives eroded to this point. A few, changed by illness or time, became strangers to those who loved them. To care for such people is hard, unglamorous work. Easier to let them fade into these walls. Sign up to Five Great Reads Each week our editors select five of the most interesting, entertaining and thoughtful reads published by Guardian Australia and our international colleagues. Sign up to receive it in your inbox every Saturday morning after newsletter promotion Yet there's life here too. I find it in small things: a book that holds my attention, sunlight warming my room, a laugh shared over a memory. The community binds us. We talk of old days, of children grown distant, of the world beyond these walls. There's comfort in that, a kind of strength. The local shops are my horizon now, but I don't mind. I've seen enough of the world to know its pleasures are fleeting. Here I have my memories, these people, this quiet. The day stretches before me, simple and unhurried, the sun climbing higher, the air still fresh. There's no need to rush, no call to chase what's gone. This is my life now, pared to its bones, and it's enough. The light shifts on the wall, and I breathe it in. It's a good day. Better than most. Andrew McKean is a writer and a resident of an aged care facility in New South Wales, Australia.
