Let’s just say it straight up: nobody in these stories has dementia or any cognitive impairment. Every single one of them is fully present, fully aware, and, frankly, fully interested. Maggie Lawson – an Aged Care worker – explores what life is like – after dar – behind closed doors.

Ever wondered if the oldies are still thinking about sex? Of course you haven’t.

The answer is yes – and honestly, good on them.

Let’s address something nobody puts in the aged care brochure: the oldies are still having sex. I’ve walked in on more than a few moments on my nightly rounds. A perfectly respectable number of your nation’s seniors are absolutely, unambiguously, still in the game.

Think about it. No cooking, no cleaning, no screaming grandkids doing laps around the kitchen like feral Roombas. No mountains of laundry. No husband asking where the remote is for the forty-seventh time this week. (Barry, it’s in your hand. It has always been in your hand.)

They have time. Meals are provided. And some of them, God bless, still have the urge.

To be fair, only a small number are what I’d lovingly call the “frisky little fellas”. You know the ones – winking at breakfast, suspiciously cheerful at 7am. No one needs to be that happy about porridge, Gerald.

But then there are the Daphnes.

Forget subtlety. Daphne just needs to walk into the room. Red lipstick – slightly outside the lines, which is part of the charm. A spritz of something floral that was probably discontinued in 1987 and somehow still smells incredible.

She works the dining room like she’s headlining a cruise out of Circular Quay. Smiling, nodding, accepting compliments, leaving a trail of completely enchanted 84-year-old men in her wake.

Now, this is where it gets awkward. Not for the residents – they’re fine. The awkwardness belongs entirely to the staff … and, catastrophically, to the families.

At some point, someone has to have a quiet word about Mum or Dad’s “new friendship” that’s become a little more than a cuddle. Sometimes it’s not even that conversation – sometimes it’s explaining things that no one ever expected to explain at this stage of life.

Because yes, an aged care facility is still a community. A very human one.

Then there are the walk-in moments.

You knock, wait, and step inside. Your brain takes a second to catch up with what your eyes are seeing … and then, yes – you quietly back out of the room again.

You return to the nurses’ station. You avoid eye contact. No words are exchanged. None are needed.

But here’s the thing.

Life in aged care can be wonderful for some residents, and incredibly lonely for others. If bingo isn’t your thing, if knitting lost its appeal sometime around the Hawke years, and there are only so many episodes of Antiques Roadshow you can watch – what’s left?

A bit of company. A kiss and a cuddle. Someone who notices when you walk into the room. Someone who makes the day move a little faster.

Of course people want that.

So here’s to the frisky little fellas, still winking over breakfast and convinced they’ve still got it – and honestly, they do.

Here’s to the Daphnes, working every room like they own it, lipstick slightly outside the lines, leaving a hint of perfume and a lot of admirers behind them.

And here’s to everyone quietly finding a bit of warmth in a place that can sometimes feel cold.

Working in aged care is an honour.

Next time you visit one, take a moment to say hello to someone sitting on their own. It matters more than you might think.