LIFE IN MY NORTHERN TOWN

THIS week I am going to write about somewhere special in the borough, Springhill Hospice.

I have been asked to write about this place by a good friend due to the fact that 1 – she works there and 2 – her husband is a lot bigger than me.

Although I am in the fortunate position of never having a relative who has had the misfortune of staying there, I greatly admire the work that goes on at the hospice.

In fact I greatly admire anyone who has to deal with people and their problems on a daily basis, whether it be sick people, sick children, dementia or any other issues.

I work in an industry where problems are relatively easily solved.

I am an engineer – if a bolt fails you put a bigger bolt in. Simple.

You can’t do that with people – you can only give them support, care and compassion and that is something that is not easy to do sometimes.

I have it on good authority that it cost £8,000 per day to run the hospice, which is nearly as much as our councillor’s pay rise this year. And what I find astonishing is that a place that offers so much consolation and comfort is paid for mainly through charitable donations, whether it be through the various shops, cafes etc that the charity owns or through individual donations.

Now, I don’t mean to get all grumpy about this, but personally I don’t do charities. I have nothing against them per se, it’s just that if I give £1 to a charity I expect £1 to be passed on - not 10 pence with the other 90 pence being given to someone to buy the stuff that I gave the money for in the first place.

But anyway, back to the Hospice. It is a sad fact that the hospice is basically the end of the road for whoever is admitted there. There is no end result. There is no cure,

And to have to deal with that on a daily basis is both astonishing and quite humbling.