As I've said previously, I work at a residential home for people who suffer psychiatric illnesses. The residents are a very settled bunch of people, lovely, and not difficult to work with at all. Sixteen people, both sexes, and a mixture of ages, from a young girl in her twenties up to a few people in their sixties.
One gentleman is partially sighted: a little man with long white hair and an uncontrolled beard to match. A woolly hat, black clothes and big boots, a grubby bent white stick, clutched in his nicotine stained hand. He sits there in the smoke room throughout the day, hand-rolling tiny cigarettes, muttering to himself, responding to heard voices, which occasionally provoke him into outbursts shouting and the expression of foul language.
Yesterday, I washed this man's grubby white stick, using soap and wire wool. It came up white and clean, although it's still warped at the bottom.
A little money his given to him each day, when he'll have either a can of cheap larger, or a bar of Cadbury's fruit and nut. He's an ex-street person, who as such people do, live by their own rules. He refuses to let anyone cut his hair or beard, so as a result, he's gradually disappearing under a mass of nicotine-stained, white hair.