Whatever happened to convalescent homes (Letters, 7 and 15 December)? I was twice sent to such a place in 1954 and 1955, aged seven, following serious illness. It was 35 miles from my home and named after Jan Smuts, the South African nationalist leader, soldier and Calvinist. The naming was appropriate: it was run by methods that were, even by the standards of the day, harsh and spartan. Up at 6am in freezing cold, forced exercise, enforced naps and compulsory medication with some vile substance called “Radio Malt” daily, as well as other substances lost to memory, too awful to recall, and physical punishment. Kindness was not on the menu.
Parental visits were allowed once a week but they were not permitted inside. My family had no car and so my mother travelled hours by bus, every fortnight and, more than once, walked through snow with holes in her shoes, to feed me pork sandwiches at the gate – a taste of home.
The experience undoubtedly marked me, and many others, for life. Their passing should not be mourned.
Martin Plaster
Bristol
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Ill feelings remain about my time in a convalescent home | Letters
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