When I was a child, one of the things that struck me about old asylums was 'waiting rooms'. The term goes back years, but I still come across it. Old people lined up in rows, probably parked in front of a television, seemingly just waiting to die. It seems to be little different now. A care home. Rows of old people, parked in front of a television loud enough to stifle conversation but too high up on the wall to watch, no coffee tables to put things down on, ergo no access to a glass of water, a box of tissues, a magazine, a book, knitting needles, old photos, boiled sweets. The colours are brighter. There may be a theme of some sort. There may be more staff. The television will have a flat screen. But it's still a waiting room. Some people like this sort of room. Maybe in their own homes they park themselves in front of a television for hours. Maybe there will be other family members walking back and forth between them and the television. Maybe they will have conversations whilst the television is on. But not everyone does. Even those that want noise may prefer it in the form of music, and if they do, they may not all want that music to be modern pop music. I have never heard classical music or old time music played in Dad's nursing home. Yet how often are people ever offered ear plugs or personal radios, mp3 players or whatever? If you do not have dementia, you may be able to express your distress or discomfort, to insist on better conditions, but there comes a point in dementia where all you can do is to sit there and put up with it, waiting for death to free you not from your dementia but from the places in which we warehouse those with dementia. I pray that I never end up in a waiting room.