In my grandad's last weeks of life, his dementia meant that he had to be cared for in what was once an asylum and then became a mental health hospital. Naturally it had a very dubious - although never justifued - reputation locally. When I went to visit Grandad a couple of days before he died, the long, cold Victorian corridors did little to dispel that reputation. I became even more concerned when we got to his ward to find it with a locked door. However, once we entered we couldn't believe what we were seeing. Warm, caring staff. Happy patients/residents, no-one moaning or rocking in corners. The ward was only locked because of the patients' propensity to wander at times. The ward had been nicely decorated for Christmas and was clean and didn't smell of wee or anything like it. I am thankful that, in such an austere building with such a reputation, the staff there had made such fantastic efforts to ensure a quality of life for their very elderly patients, and that grandad's last days were spent in such a loving, caring environment, even though he may not have been sensible of that at the time.