LIZ JONES: The only thing that can unblock all those hospital beds is kindness

Published: 01:20 GMT, 29 October 2017 | Updated: 15:28 GMT, 29 October 2017

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I have stayed in an Airbnb apartment just the once, for a wedding. I doubt I’ll do so again. There are so many rules and regulations, despite the fact you’ve stumped up a grand for three nights.

Don’t use a scourer on the ceramic hob, they said. And, ooh no, we didn’t put the heating on before you arrived, even though it’s Scotland – and no, we didn’t warn you there’s no parking, and we’re far too miserly to provide vouchers.

I was so uncomfortable, afraid even to set down a mug – there was a thick cover on the dining table, plus coasters and a strict no-dog rule – that I left after just two nights.

And yet there was a crazy scheme mooted last week in Essex that, in order to free up hospital beds, patients well enough to go home (but also not allowed to be on their own) should have booked for them a CareRoom, their hosts receiving in the region of £50 a night.

What does it say about us as a society when we fob off our supposed loved ones on to strangers? (stock photo)

Never mind the fact that the vast majority of people have no concept of what constitutes a clean environment (even my luxe Airbnb apartment had crumbs in the fridge, and sticky cooking pans), or that it would be impossible to monitor the safety of vulnerable people. No, my first thought when I read of this bizarre idea was where on earth are all these poor people’s families and friends?

What does it say about us as a society when we fob off our supposed loved ones on to strangers? That sort of PC thinking is, of course, commendable. We should look after our own. Unfortunately, life isn’t always that simple.

My oldest sister, discharged early from hospital after a broken ankle and a bang on the head, was deposited by ambulance men outside her flat with not even a pint of milk, and no heating.

She didn’t call me (I think, by then, after decades of coping with her crises, I’d blocked her phone number), but even if she had, I live 250 miles away. And to be brutal, I couldn’t manage her: a recovering alcoholic with mobility and money problems. I am not a doctor, nor am I a nurse, let alone a saint.

I’d also learned my limitations. When my mum became in need of full-time care, I did the daughterly thing. I hired a private ambulance to fetch her from Essex, where she lived alone, with only drop-in carers to look after her. I bought a mattress cover, special pillows, and made sure she was on a floor with a bathroom on one level for her wheelchair.

I thought I could do a better job than the very young, often non-English-speaking carers with one eye on the clock who would patronise her gaily: ‘How are you, Edna?! Don’t you look beautiful today?!’

I lasted two weeks. Until that point, I’d believed I was a really nice person. But my mum was embarrassed, guilty. She felt she was in the way, permanently terrified of making a mess. ‘Oh, I’m such a nuisance!’ she’d wail. But even more crucially than having no patience, I also had zero skills.

Liz Jones was not impressed with Airbnb. 'I was so uncomfortable, afraid even to set down a mug – there was a thick cover on the dining table, plus coasters and a strict no-dog rule – that I left after just two nights' (stock photo)

Who knew that for anyone even vaguely immobile it is essential they receive the correct amount of fruit and water? Who knew you had to know the correct technique to be able to help someone up from a chair? Who knew being kind was such hard work?

I remember meeting Ann Widdecombe, asking her how she came to look after her mum until she died. ‘It was the most natural thing in the world,’ she said without missing a beat. Trouble is, for many of us, being a carer is not second nature.

I went into looking after my mum completely blind, delusional. I had blocked my sister because, well, what if she falls, again? Should I say anything if I find a bottle under her pillow, or just ignore it?

The ‘Carebnb’ scheme has since been abandoned, thank goodness, but the problem of a cash-strapped health service still looms large.

My sister died alone, barely two days after being discharged and deposited alone at the door of her freezing flat. I’m racked with guilt, as I’m sure her two sons are.

Maybe it’s time we all started to learn not just new skills, but how to be a little less selfish.

PS... Here’s my answer to those who’ve been asking, why did the rich and famous female accusers of Harvey Weinstein not speak up sooner?

When my assistant and I documented with photos and saved texts a prolonged case of sexual harassment, the police prosecuted him (he was fined a few pounds) but have since then failed to punish him for breaking a restraining order numerous times.

I appealed to his solicitor. The result? I was warned off by the man’s brother-in-law.

This is why women don’t speak up. The abuser generally walks, emboldened, while we have to keep hiding, looking over our shoulders, terrified…