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The sordid reality of retirement villages: Residents are being milked for profit
It’s curry night and service is in full swing. Baileys and bitter flow from the bar, kormas are ladled at tables, and laughter, complaints, and spills erupt through dentures.
They’re advertised in glossy magazines subtly named Silver and Dignity, and their brochures often include salt-and-pepper bearded Adonises playing croquet, or else happy couples watching the sunset with a glass of wine. “But if you’re a cash buyer,” he adds, with a wry smile, “it puts you up to the top of the list.” It’s impossible, here, not to return to the question of money — for amid the ground rents and tax bills, many of these places are ultimately run as businesses. That might be enough to make Richard Osman smile, but it’s hard to feel sentimental when I recall my own experiences: shepherding confused residents to the toilet; placing cones beside rogue deposits in the restaurant; mopping up suspicious puddles (custard, John Smiths, or other); nudging care teams about overstuffed stoma bags; and politely reminding people of where exactly they live.
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