Please allow me to share a valuable and humbling lesson that I learned many moons ago...

Whilst at school, I was offered the opportunity to volunteer for Community Service. This carried two benefits: 

1. It enabled me to visit the local Hospice and serve the community; to help and assist those that genuinely needed it.

2. It got me out of playing Rugby.

My first day was quite a baptism of fire, and it dawned on me that I'd underestimated what I thought would be an 'easy gig'. Upon entering a Senile Ward, my innocent gaze was met with a traumatic sight. Many elderly patients were rocking back and forth, moaning, wide eyed and dribbling. The overall effect was quite demoralising for a naive child who was yet to experience the harsh truths of life: People get old, they get frail and lose their faculties. They suffer in the twighlight of their years, and their bodies and minds break down.

The other pupils that I'd travelled in the mini bus with, were far more adept and practiced at this scenario, and amidst a flurry of grabbed acoustic guitars, tambourines and Bingo tickets, they threw themselves into the ward with gusto and vim (not the scouring powder). To my horror, as soon as my friends sat with their chosen patients, their forearms would invariably be clutched feverishly by desperate, skeletal arms. The wailing and misery seemed to be practically unbearable.

I stifled the urge to turn on my heel and escape. I just had to do what I'd come for: I had to help, I had to be a good person. But I was scared, embarrassed and intimidated, and I was full of shame for letting my social inadequacy prevent me from doing a worthwhile deed for others. 

Just as the wave of fear and nausea was about to engulf me, I noticed a rather forlorn, yet distinguished chap, sitting by the window, staring vacantly into the grounds. Even the set of his shoulders seemed to suggest defeat, as his glassy eyes scanned the outside world for a friend, a relative, someone to talk to, or just the faintest glimmer of hope. “He looks like he might not be totally tonto”, I mused inwardly, as I grabbed a Bingo ticket and threaded my way towards his moth-eaten chair.

“Hi! My name's John, and I'm here to play Bingo with you!” I enthused, with all the breezy eagerness of a burning Holiday Rep. The elderly gentleman turned his gaze slowly from the window and his baleful, vacuous eyes settled uneasily on me. His leathery brow seemed to crinkle slightly, but he said nothing. I repeated my opening gambit, but this time with more decibels. Still those slate grey eyes remained moist but motionless. “Poor guy”, I thought, “A bit slow, as well as deaf”.

I abandoned the greeting altogether and simply pulled up a plastic chair and shouted: “B-I-N-G-O!!!!!!!     G-O-O-D,   Y-E-S?!   P-L-A-Y,   Y-E-S?!!!” His eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly, and his mouth struggled to formulate a response, as the thin lips seemed to strain against an errant few strands of flimsy spittle. “This is good”, I thought, “I'm getting through... I'm establishing contact... Stick with him Johnny, he needs you. He must have a family somewhere... why in heaven's name aren't they here? The guy must have fought in the war, served his country and seen all manner of unspeakable things, yet here he is, alone and depressed, amongst a gaggle of strangers and the fetid stench of disinfectant”. My awkwardness was immediately disloved by the injustice of it all: Why, as a society, could we not look after our own people... earnest souls who had served us so gallantly; so selflessly; with such dignity and sacrifice? I attacked my task with renewed relish and a comforting sense of purpose.

The afternoon ticked gently on, and as the numbers were called, I tried to get him to cross them out himself, but alas, to no avail. At each juncture, he seemed to become more disorientated... more bemused. I gently prised the chewed biro from his bony fingers, covered in loose translucent, gossamer skin, and began to cross the numbers off myself. “L-O-O-K!!  2  F-A-T   L-A-D-I-E-S...  W-E   H-A-V-E   T-H-O-S-E!!” (Note: This was thirty years ago, before our politically correct age, when it was actually a compliment to call women 'fat', as it implied that they were curvaceous and Rubenesque, and could afford good food).  

After a few minutes of gentle coaxing however, I awoke to a development that I'd been hitherto unaware of... The rest of the room had fallen silent and still. No, not quite silent... If I wasn't mistaken, I could hear the distant echo of a group of school kids trying to stifle a laugh...

I turned back to the room to see my teacher mouthing the words: “That's the caretaker”.

That day, I learned never to make rash assumptions about anything, or anybody. I resolved to always search out the facts and attain absolute understanding before passing any judgement whatsoever. Only when this has been satisfactorily achieved, will I endeavour to make a total prick of myself.