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The minutes drag by in Arthur’s sterile, stale-aired, sheltered-accommodation flat – so tediously he cannot bear to look at his clock. But not as slowly as the three days he spent trapped on the floor because no carer was allowed to lift him.

Arthur, 84, is housebound, wheelchair-bound and alone – and completely reliant on care visits four times a day, which have drained his life savings.

That’s the proceeds of the sale of his modest £90,000, two-bed house, plus what he managed to save throughout his working life on the railways – and which he had hoped to leave to his two children, but which will soon be gone.

In return, his care is private, but council-contracted, which, at best, provides functional basics and, at worst, has been shockingly neglectful and, arguably, inhumane.

(Image: Blend Images)

In the past, bedtime visits have been missed and Arthur, who cannot use his legs and is slowly losing all use of his hands because of a stroke, was left in his wheelchair all night.

Once, he spent three days on the floor after a fall, because his carers were not qualified, equipped or permitted by red tape to pick him up – and his case was not deemed a priority by the cash-strapped 999 service.

“I felt completely helpless, and embarrassed,” he says. “My carers gave me a blanket, pillow, food and drink, and helped me with a urine bottle. They were placed in a very difficult situation, to be honest, they didn’t have the training or the equipment.”

He explains: “Care’s on a ration, but it’s bankrupting me. I worked for 45 years, night shifts, early shifts, I never took a sick day. I bought my own home, I had some savings. But it’s going.

“I have rips in my sweatshirt,” he adds, showing me the holes. “But I have to think twice before I buy a new one.”

Arthur has about £20,000 left. As he now falls below the Government’s controversially designated £23,000 saving pot “floor”, he is receiving some contribution to his care. His sheltered flat is subsidised, too, although he still pays rent and bills.

It is only when his savings hit £14,000 – not much to show for a lifetime – that his local council will be prepared to completely fund his care.

This though, will rob Arthur of what he clings to – choice. It could mean a move to a cheaper care home, even outside his local area, which horrifies the independent-minded man.

(Image: Phil Harris)

And then, on top of these worries, there’s the excruciating loneliness.

With his children living abroad, and wife deceased, visitors are few and Arthur’s carers don’t hang around to chat. “It feels like I am just existing,” he says, softly. “In solitary confinement.”

Arthur – not his real name – has asked us not to identify him because he feels so vulnerable. He has invited me to spend the day with him because he knows, tragically, he could be any one of tens of thousands of pensioners today suffering from the social-care crisis. Arthur moved to this accommodation more than 10 years ago when his home could not be adapted for his disability.

Although there are carers on site, he is only permitted to pull his red chord for emergency “toileting”.

“When I first came, there were about 10 in-house care workers, now it’s three – and only one at night,” he explains.

“We used to have coffee mornings, bingo, a hair salon – that’s all stopped. There are no activities now.” Instead, Arthur’s weekly highlight is to pay £12 for the “ring-and-ride” to take him to a supermarket – the only one in town which will provide help.

I arrive at 7.15am for the carers’ morning visit to get Arthur out of bed, washed, dressed and fed. Today he gets a shower, but that’s just twice a week.

Time drags until a half-hour visit at lunchtime, then teatime and, finally, bedtime.

The two carers are polite but purely functional. There’s no chit chat – I hear them refer to Arthur as “he”.

“You put his deodorant on,” says one. “Have you done his hair?” To which Arthur pipes: “Yes, she’s done it.”

Carers, under extreme pressure for often poor pay, don’t last long.

Arthur explains: “I’ve had a stranger come to wake me up before. Some have set timers on their phones.

“I would like them to be better trained, more understanding of my condition. When they move me, they accidentally hurt me. I understand they do what they can, but it’s the basics.”

There’s a patch of lawn outside, but it’s inaccessible for a wheelchair.

Fresh air is out – Arthur says rules state he can’t open the windows.

Bedtime comes as early as 8.30pm, rendering Arthur horizontal for 11 hours.

Despite it all, Arthur is still desperate to avoid a care home, although it would be cheaper. He tried one for four days, but hated the regimented routine.

“Here, I at least have some independence,” he says, adding: “And the stories you hear about abuse frighten me.”

In return for a lifetime of hard work, there isn’t much comfort in Arthur’s life, and even less hope.

“I have to try to keep occupied, or I’ll get down,” he says.

It’s a wise sentiment from a courageous man – but occupying Arthur is way down on a beleaguered system’s list