![]() Living here, Francis says, gives him ‘access to a life that is relatively normal’. It’s very simple – I’m a resident, I’m ill, not too badly, but I know I’ve been ill for a long time.’ ‘The autonomy that has been put in place here, it permits people to exist. ‘There are others for whom things are more complicated,’ he says, offering me a little nougat chocolate. In fact, it’s only after we’ve been speaking for half an hour that I can spot any sign of the disease that, slowly but surely, is taking hold. He seems sharp and confident, with a twinkle in his eye and an infectious energy. When I first meet him, it isn’t immediately obvious if he is a resident or a volunteer. I came here because it was no longer possible to live alone.’įrancis is 72. ![]() I have the good fortune not to be too affected by the disease I still have some of the capabilities that I had in my life before, when I worked, because I was responsible for a relatively important company. ‘It’s quite simple,’ says Francis, as he and Véronique stroll from the shop to the restaurant for a coffee, ‘if you stay in your room all the time, you’re not really living your life, are you? You have to go outside. It also connects them to an old life – one where they were in control of how they spent their day and what they had for lunch. Shopping tells the villager something about how they’re coping. Do you feel good enough to come here? Do you feel well enough to remember the list? Can you read the list? Can you count?’ Founded as an experiment, it represents an alternative to a traditional care home, something more akin to a resort or a purpose-built village, with every element designed entirely with Alzheimer’s sufferers in mind. ‘Every morning, the houses have to come, one way or another, to get some groceries,’ says Mathilde Charon-Burnel, communications director for the village, which is a kind of dementia utopia. It’s just a trip to the shops, but of the infinite things Alzheimer’s takes from its sufferers, it’s perhaps the loss of those domestic routines that can make the world seem suddenly, irrevocably smaller. It’s the kind of mundane errand we take for granted until life’s daily rhythms are snatched from us. ‘Doing the shopping helps with our independence,’ he says. ‘If you have any questions now’s the time, eh?’ says Francis cheerfully. It isn’t immediately obvious, but every single resident of this village has Alzheimer’s disease. Look closer still and you’ll see that for every elderly person clutching a shopping list there is a slightly younger companion gently guiding them through the motions. No money is changing hands, no one is in a rush to get their shopping done before a meeting, or fitting in a chore before children need picking up from school – the clientele are (mostly) of a certain age. But look a little closer and you’ll notice some crucial differences. It’s the kind of scene that plays out every day in villages all over France. A blackboard on the wall announces there are brownies available today should anyone be inclined to pick up an afternoon treat stock cubes, prunes and kitchen sponges are on order, arriving next week. The shelves are stocked with all the usual essentials and little luxuries, from crates of apples to a small fridge boasting some nice cheese and pots of crème caramel. The village is peaceful, save for the sound of singing coming from the restaurant next door, and the gentle bustle in the shop. ![]() ‘You see – we have our trolley, our list, et voilà.’įebruary sunlight streams in from the square outside. ‘We take it in turns to do the shopping,’ says Francis, heading confidently for the fridge, his neighbour Véronique in tow. ![]() Locals are arriving two by two, collecting a little red trolley from the porch and making their way at a sedate pace around the shelves. It’s 11am and the small supermarket in the centre of Landais, a village in Dax in south-west France, is in the thick of the pre-lunch rush. ‘Two loaves of bread, a lettuce, two brioches, one pat of butter, two bottles of milk, some soup, cheese, biscuits, a bar of chocolate, eggs, loo roll…’ Francis Lalane is reading out his shopping list.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |