Fifteen years ago, I was working in a care home, and one Sunday afternoon I persuaded The Husband to bring his guitar along and have a bit of a sing-song. He brushed up on the hits of the 40s – believe me Vera Lynn was big in that place. And threw in some 50s pop and a shed load of Beatles.
After a raucous hour, he stopped and joined the residents for a glass of sherry. A young lad came up and asked if he had any John Denver songs in his repertoire because his Gran was a great fan.
Gran turned out to be Edna, a lady with dementia. She struggled to remember everyday words, but at six o’clock every…
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