This past week has felt like a bit of a transition week. For those of us who are parents of school-age children most of us will have experienced either this week or the previous one our children returning to school after what has been a surprisingly good and even traditional ‘sunny’ summer.

That first day back at school is a real rite of passage for folks – looking at the new starts all bright-faced and uncertain, and older children re-kindling friendships and contact even if mobile phones have never been out of their hands for weeks! This return to school is more than calendar – it is ritual. It marks continuity and renewal. It also reminds us of the fragility of our systems – education, care, community – that hold us together.

But in the non-school world too we are also seeing change all around us, as conkers seem to be appearing even earlier and leaves are beginning to change colour. There is a growing chill in the morning air, not yet the bite of winter, but a reminder that change marches on. The days remain long, but the evening shadows start to stretch. And as seems to be becoming pattern migratory birds are returning even earlier than normal. The seasons are turning. I have always found these in‑between times to be moments of truth-telling, and opportunities for realism.

Watching children file into school reminds us of both hope and urgency. Schools are where potential is forged; where community is invested in, where futures begin. Yet alongside this forward movement, we must remember that for many families, stability is fragile. While classrooms brim with promise, care providers – homes, charities, volunteer networks – stand on strained foundations and if we allow those foundations to crumble the edifice of health and wellbeing in our society collapses.

This season is I have always felt a time for realistic optimism, a hope for the future grounded in a realistic assessment of the present and that seasonal aptitude has never been more needed than it is now for the world of social care. And realism begins with honesty.

Over 200 charities – many providing key social care services – have come together to issue a stark warning: the care sector is not sustainable as it stands. In an Open Letter to the First Minister published last week they plead for immediate action- sufficient funding and systemic reform- to avert a collapse that would harm our most vulnerable. Their plea echoes continual statements from myself and colleagues as for months now we have warned of real and immediate risk to social care provision, and most importantly the fact that people are dying as we speak and watch, waiting for life-affirming and renewing social care support. A couple of days ago in an interview in Herald Scotland I lamented the apparent ‘paralysis of response’ from the Scottish Government. No one seems to be listening. We are deafened by the inactivity of decision-makers and the malaise of political disinterest.

The charities’ joint letter is clear: nearly half of voluntary care organisations feel financially insecure; two-thirds rely on reserves to keep going, with 91% at risk within four years if trends persist; and a full 81% of voluntary bodies report escalating financial threats to essential services. These numbers are not abstract – they are communities, relationships, and dignity dripping away. The members of Scottish Care echo the same sense of alarm and concern in the surveys we have produced over the last few months. There is an existential threat to survival within the vast majority of social care providers in Scotland.

As we turn our gaze therefore toward autumn and winter, Scotland’s social care system stands at a threshold- facing profound economic pressures and legislative shifts.

From April 2025, UK-wide Employer National Insurance Contributions (eNICs) rose significantly adding around £2.8 billion in sector-wide costs, and imposing tight margins on social care providers, particularly smaller independent and voluntary organisations operating on low fees.

But this isn’t just about finance- it’s about dignity. Providers forced to scale back, cut staff hours, or close services leave vulnerable people isolated and families without support. Realism demands we name this hardship.

Added to this – just last month, the UK government closed the adult social care visa route unless roles meet degree-level criteria- meaning many migrant care workers will no longer be eligible. New recruits must now meet higher requirements, effectively ending overseas recruitment for care work from July 2025. I had a manager in tears this past week because she was having to tell a brilliant staff member that they could not continue her visa.

These changes threaten to exacerbate existing staffing gaps. Social care leaders warn of rising attrition, especially as better-paid NHS roles lure workers away from care homes and homecare services in pursuit of stability and advancement.

The realities facing our communities and our care services are stark. The rise in costs- whether from increased employer contributions, energy bills, or the price of food- tightens the margins of already fragile services. Workforce challenges remain severe, exacerbated by changes in immigration policy that close doors for many who might have chosen Scotland as a place to live and care. Families continue to struggle with the dual responsibilities of work and caring, unpaid carers shouldering burdens often unseen.

These are not passing inconveniences. They are deep and structural. To deny them would be to engage in wishful thinking. And care, if it is to mean anything, cannot be built on illusions.

Realism demands we hold these truths without flinching. Without pretending that goodwill alone can patch the gaps. Realism demands that we have long since passed the stage where Elastoplast measures will patch up the brokenness and ensure the patient survives. Realism demands that we require brave political leadership to make decisions and choices which will result in real change and not simply spew out yet more empty rhetoric. We need hope-full realism.

So where does that leave us? In tension. Realism tells us services face cost pressures, workforce crises, and uncertain policy. Hope reminds us of emerging gains: new rights, rising pay, reform legislation, and long‑term structures that aim to embed rights and consistency.

Hopeful realism is not denial, nor is it escapism. It is choosing to act.

Hopeful realism is the art of carrying truth in one hand and courage in the other. It refuses the luxury of despair just as it rejects the comfort of denial.

Hopeful realism tells us that the narrow road is often the truest one. It asks of us not perfection, but persistence; not certainty, but commitment.

Hopeful realism is not an abstract sentiment; it is a discipline. It is the daily choosing to believe that change is possible- and the practical work of bringing it into being.

Hopeful realism is not a compromise- it is a balance.

It says: Yes, we face severe staff shortages. But we also have the capacity to train, support and properly value a new generation of carers not least if we improve terms and conditions.

It says: Yes, increased costs will strain providers. But investment and fair funding can steady the ship and that the ship is essential for all of us.

It says: Yes, immigration changes will close pathways. But with imagination and policy will, we can open new ones.

Hopeful realism is a lens that sees the cracks in the walls yet still tends the flame within.

The coming months will not be easy. Winter rarely is. But this is not a time for resignation. It is a time for choosing. Choosing to act, to support, to stand alongside. Choosing to hold our political leaders accountable to their promises. Choosing to believe that care, in its truest form, remains one of the most powerful expressions of our humanity.

The return of schools teaches us that renewal is possible. And if we can invest collectively in education- an investment in our children- surely, we can do the same in social care- an investment in our neighbours, families, elders. The spirit of educators and parents who gather at school gates each morning can be replicated by communities, policymakers, and local leaders in meeting care needs with resolve.

Yesterday I was at the Scottish Parliament and was pleased to contribute to a debate entitled ‘ Do we value social care?’ which was part of the Parliament’s annual Festival of Politics. It was a great debate and discussion, and the overall consensus of panellists and audience was no – we value the people and the outcomes of changed lives and independence, but we do not value the workforce or organisations, or even the essence of social care. That has to change if hope is not to become an illusion.

We stand at a critical juncture: buffeted by policy shifts and fiscal strain, yet buoyed by reform, rights and renewed commitment. Hopeful realism calls us neither to despair nor to distraction—but to engaged courage, to act where we can, nurture where we must, and walk together into the change that must come.

The garden is full, the hedges high- and I sense both the fullness and fragility of this moment. The sun feels generous, yet we know autumn approaches. So let this in-between time be our reminder: hope requires practice and action, and practice is hope made real and realised.

Donald Macaskill

Photo by D R on Unsplash

Top of Form

A story is not a luxury.

It is not an embellishment added once other needs have been met. A story is central. It is how we come to know who we are. It is how we declare our presence to others. It is how we resist being erased in systems that too often reduce us to numbers, diagnoses, or costs.

Over the last few months, I’ve had several discussions around data and technology, and the tensions that sometimes exist with the use of personal data and the desire for personal privacy and individual control. As a result, I have found myself thinking again about the question of who owns our stories. In an age where our lives are increasingly digitised, where our memories, choices, and even our preferences are stored in invisible clouds, the question of personal data has become more than technical. It has become moral and ethical.

Following on from those meetings and conversations I have been thinking especially about the stories of older people in our social care and support system. When I speak with older people across Scotland, I hear a recurring theme: a sense of losing control. Not simply over health and care decisions, but over information. Who knows what about me? Who decides what is shared, and with whom? Who holds the keys to my life?

But it goes even deeper than that – it is not just the data that others have of us. It is the sense that people like professionals presume they know the whole story of who I am. So, all this has made me think of stories in the fullest human sense and not the ones written about older people, but the ones they hold within- their own stories. Because far too often, those personal narratives are sidelined. Not intentionally. But gradually. Imperceptibly. Lost in a sea of forms, eligibility criteria, assessments and appraisals. We gather data but lose the person.

In one care home I visited this spring, a woman in her 90s looked me straight in the eye and said,

“It feels like everyone else gets to write my story. But I rarely get the pen.”

What an image – and it’s one that has stayed with me.

Who holds the pen?

Who decides what is written, what is remembered, what is shared- and with whom?

There is great dignity in holding your own story. To know that your memories, choices, and identity are not just scattered across the systems of State, the operating platforms of a software or care provider but gathered, safeguarded, and stewarded by you.

This, at its heart, is what lies behind the growing movement around Personal Data Stores. Platforms like MyDex, Solid Pods, Hub-of-All-Things (HAT), and so many others are not simply technical solutions. They are moral statements: declarations that the right to hold and control your own data is an extension of the right to hold and express your identity.

What MyDex has pioneered is not merely a secure place for personal data. It is a model for digital dignity- a way for people, including those receiving care, to collect, manage and consent to how their data is used. And more importantly, to participate meaningfully in decisions about their own life.

In the world of social care, where so much of our energy goes into managing information about people, we must I feel increasingly ask a different question: How do we enable people to manage their own information?

Not just because it’s efficient or innovative, but because it is just.

In recent months, I have seen inspiring work in Scotland and across the UK where communities, innovators, and care organisations are exploring models that place the individual at the centre and in the lead. These systems do not treat data as a commodity, but as a sacred trust. They build on the belief that to be human is to have ownership of your past, your present, and your future choices.

And this is where care and technology meet. A human rights-based approach to care insists that we are more than patients or residents, more than service users. We are people whose identity is bound up in the stories we tell, and the stories told about us. The secure cloud, then, is not just about firewalls and encryption keys. It is about respect, dignity, and agency.

And that is a challenge, not least because the technology and social care systems and the way in which they have grown up together and apart does not make the ability to retain control and agency easy. The language of digital care systems has been dominated for too long by compliance – GDPR boxes ticked, privacy notices drafted, systems encrypted. But compliance is not the same as ethics, and consent is not the same as participation.

A human rights-based approach to social care- digital, AI or otherwise- must begin with the understanding that older people are not a single demographic category. They are individuals, each with a story, each with values, each deserving of voice.

Yet policy documents still refer to “the elderly” as a bloc. Health interventions are rolled out to “the over 75s.” Service planning talks of “high-risk groups.” And such treatment of individual older people as a homogeneous group was palpably evident during the recent submissions to the UK Covid Inquiry where it because abundantly clear just how little focus was given to the individual as opposed to the ‘group.’ All such approaches mean that the nuance of identity, of history, of individual choice and decision, and of personal journey is flattened out.

There is a slow erosion of personal autonomy when we reduce people to policy targets. Even when we are aware of these risks and we talk of co-design and co-production, too often decisions are made far from the rooms where older people live their lives. We must do better. Not simply because it is good practice, but because it is just.

Autonomy is not just about choice. It is about voice. It is about having your story held in respect, not just your needs measured in minutes and tasks. When we take a human rights-based approach to care, we are not only ensuring that people are safe or well-fed or medically supported – though all of these are vital. We are affirming something deeper: that people have the right to shape the telling of their lives, to be authors still, even when age or illness might seek to steal the script.

When we fail to do so it is no wonder that people feel unseen.

Ethical software development in care must shift away from systems designed for people and toward systems designed with people. This is what Personal Data Store developers and others are exploring: the digital infrastructure that places the person not the provider – at the centre. Systems and approaches that understand that my data is mine, not the State’s. the social care provider or the software business.

But we must go further.

We must ask, not least as new Ai-driven software systems are being developed, whose knowledge counts in system design? Are older people being consulted, or simply processed? Does our software reflect the principles of dignity, autonomy, and rights?

Too often, digital care solutions are designed around efficiency, interoperability, and cost-saving- rarely around emotion, memory, or personhood. We need ethical innovation that is rooted in relationship, not just functionality. And that may mean that a thorough rights-based analysis and evaluation of what we are already using in care delivery, and what we may want to use in the future requires, some designers to go back to the drawing board and some packages to be made obsolete because they do not sufficiently protect the rights and ownership of the citizen.

The challenge ahead of us in social care is not merely technical. It is ethical, cultural, and narrative.

We must reclaim the importance of the personal story and individual autonomy- not as a nice-to-have – but as the starting point for every decision, every plan, every policy. We must hand back the pen so that people can write their own futures, not have them dictated by systems.

This is not sentimentality. It is justice.

It is time to design care – from analogue to digital, from bedside to browser- based on the belief that every person holds a story that deserves to be told on their terms. That includes building digital platforms that do not mine, manipulate, or monetise human lives, but honour, protect, and empower them.

Because the future of care is not just data driven. It is human-shaped. And it begins by asking:

“What’s your story?”

Then giving people, the time, space, and tools to answer.

And for those who say the systems are too far down the road to change tack, that people are comfortable with their data being accessed by others – then we need to be very cognisant of the fact that there is a sharp generational change happening around public attitudes to data in society, as well as in social care. If we want to prepare for that changed ethical perspective, then we need to start now.

Specifically, a growing volume of research projects and reports are showing us that younger adults, being more digitally immersed, are seeking personalisation, and actively asserting their data rights and thus appear more likely to adopt tools like personal data packs. So, the social care recipient of the near future will increasingly want systems and models over which they have greater control, agency and the ability to write their own story and decide who sees it.

In the end technology will always be a tool. It is our values- the values of respect, autonomy, and dignity- that will continue to matter the most. The future of care is not just digital or data-driven. It is human. And it starts with giving back the pen to the real authors.

I leave you with a poem from the American 20^th century poet Maxwell Bodenheim which casts the inner world of the aging self as a place of memory and continuity, not decay. The “painted square” symbolises identity – the space where one’s thoughts, relationships, and stories live. It speaks deeply to the value of preserving and honouring personal narrative, especially as one grows older. It affirms that autonomy and identity endure, vividly and vulnerably, in the spaces where others might see only age.

Old Age

In me is a little painted square

Bordered by old shops.

I walk in these narrow places,

And hear the creaking of flesh that is still alive.

And outside, people pass,

Strong men with firm strides,

Women whose hair smells of scented leaves,

Children who forget to laugh too loudly.

 

Inside my square I am comfortable.

The old men sit smoking before the shops,

Their faces like neglected icons,

And they nod to me as I pass.

They are my thoughts, my reminiscences,

And each evening I return to them

With food from the present.

We talk of things long gone,

Of people who changed with the seasons,

Of women whose lips we kissed in forgotten cities.

 

Some evening I shall not return.

But the square will remain,

The old men still smoking,

Waiting for my cart of thoughts.

And someone else, in some other square,

Will pass and see them,

And wonder.

 

Old Age by Maxwell Bodenheim – Poems | Academy of American Poets

 

Donald Macaskill

 

Photo by jesse orrico on Unsplash

I’ve always been fascinated by reading and by books – yet they need not necessarily be one and the same. For at a very early age of life the idea of libraries intrigued me so much so that before I even went to school I had taken over part of the hall cupboard in my family tenement and together with my twin brother we had started to arrange and catalogue a few books in the house – we had created the Macaskill Library – less interested in what the books contained but more interested in them as physical objects of story and attraction.

As I got older, I began to develop an interest in the words inside the books, and part of that was confirmed when along with my classmates I was taken along the road to become one of the first members of the junior section of the newly opened Hillhead Library on Byers Road in Glasgow. I had never been in a building quite like it – modern, designed and technological and yet at the same time an oasis for somebody who wanted to learn and to gain knowledge.

Over the years my initial fascination with libraries has deepened and I’ve had the pleasure of visiting some of the most amazing libraries in the world, from the Vatican to the New York Public Library on 5^th Avenue, to the Bodleian in Oxford and of course the beautiful National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh.

I find myself thinking about libraries and their meaning today because it is Book Lovers Day. And as I reflect I cannot but think of one of the libraries which has left a significant mark upon me and that is the Public Library in Kirkwall, Orkney where I spent many a day over 30 years ago exploring the shelves, sitting quietly reading and chatting to some of the regulars.

One of the folks I met there was called John who was well into his eighties when I met him and yet virtually every day he came to the library. It was in truth partly because of the social aspect of seeing familiar faces and friends; it also meant that he managed to get a bit of warmth in the day, but it was more than that and when I got to know him a little bit I asked him why he came every day. Immediately his response was because “I want to read something new every day until I cannot read anymore. I used to think that reading was for the bairns, but I now know that reading is for all ages.”

What a truth there is in that statement and yet I cannot but reflect on the fact that the ability ot exercise such an aspiration these days is affected by the closure of so many public spaces for reading – our libraries – which sadly are amongst the first public services to be reduced or cut in times of austerity – there are a fewer and fewer places for all people, of all ages to simply sit and read and to enjoy the experience.

Libraries in Scotland have long been engines of community, learning, and social mobility. Yet as I said above, we are losing them at a terrible rate with recent reports showing closures – 42 since 2014 – and cuts to staffing and funding across rural and urban areas, raising alarm among authors and older age advocates.

This is I think is more than disappointing because in many senses we’ve lost an understanding of just how significant reading is for individual and community health and well-being.

I don’t think it was by accident that Scots were famous for the requirement that every child should be able to read and write and that reading had been central to our cultural and national character. Parish schools, universities and public lending libraries like one of Scotland’s first- the Kirkwall Library, established in 1683 – ensured that books became a public resource for growth and learning.

This tradition continues: cultural engagement research in Scotland shows that people aged 75+ are more likely to read than younger groups – underlining that reading remains a valued practice well into older age.

Insights from Scotland’s contemporary wellbeing research emphasise reading’s role in mental and emotional health. A Scottish Book Trust/University of Edinburgh project found that reading fiction in older adulthood evokes hope, nostalgia, humour and identity – helping build meaning and emotional connection. Reading for pleasure also promotes empathy, resilience, and psychological health across the lifespan.

Intergenerational schemes like Scotland Reads unite school pupils and older adult volunteers in reading and story‑sharing. These projects strengthen confidence, literacy, empathy and social networks in both generations – with older volunteers especially reporting increased self‑esteem, new friendships, and purpose through engagement.

Reading is not merely a pastime – in later life it becomes a profound lifeline. Our response to the challenges of ageing and cognitive decline are rightly sophisticated and technological these days but also have to acknowledge and recognise that the simple art of reading has huge benefits to individuals of any age.

Indeed a 14-year Taiwanese study found that older adults who read weekly had about half the risk of cognitive decline compared to infrequent readers – across all education levels. Reading strengthens memory and a US study has shown that engaged leisure reading can improve older adults’ memory skills, laying a foundation for longer-term mental resilience.

The truth of John’s statement to me in Kirkwall is that we keep ourselves healthy by remaining curious and by stretching our imaginations and few things enable us to do that better than by reading books – and as one study in the Times showed a couple of months ago – that while general curiosity declines with age, specific curiosity – such as learning through reading – actually increases after midlife, with benefits for brain health and well-being. You really can teach an old dog new tricks!

We have of course to recognise that there are very genuine barriers which prevent older people from keeping reading alive in their lives or even starting to read for the first time. One of those is the loss of public spaces for people to come together and what that means for the loss of social learning and exchange, but there are also practical issues which older readers face – but none of them cannot be addressed or dealt with.

Age-related eye changes – macular degeneration, contrast sensitivity and fatigue – make fine print and small font difficult so why are we printing less Large-Print books? While digital devices could help, many older adults feel anxious or lack confidence in using them; insufficient support leaves them preferring print – even if e-books might help access. We could improve lighting and produce more audiobooks and age sensitive podcasts which could all help overcome visual barriers and fatigue, making reading more accessible.

Even more critical and often ignored is the real prospect of developing geragogic learning and digital training. Older‑adult focused design education (geragogy) invites learners to set their own curriculum, with practical relevance and peer learning. Tailored support from digital educators helps older folks overcome technophobia with patience and practice.

On this August 9 – Book Lovers Day – let us affirm that reading in older age is far from a fading echo of youth. It’s a living presence: sparking curiosity, protecting memory, anchoring community, and offering lifespans richer in heart and mind.

Let us consider care facilities developing partnerships with public authorities or charities or businesses to have a small mini library open not to residents alone but to the wider community, including children and young people, not least in remote and rural parts of the country.

The challenges are real – vision, lack of location with the loss of libraries, technology, logistics – but the rewards, when older people are supported, are profound.

Reading isn’t a luxury – it is a potent companion for those years when wisdom and imagination can still flourish. As the poet W. B.Yeats, said in “When You Are Old”:

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

So let us to take down the book in the later years – to read slowly, to remember, to dream – and in doing so, to live again the fullness of a life shaped by love and letters.

Donald Macaskill

Not for the first time and I suspect not the last – I found myself standing in an airport bookshop a few weeks ago – looking at the array of books to entice the traveller to summer reading. I was struck as I always have been by just how many books there are out there on leadership and management – indeed it is a theme I have spoken and written about a fair deal in the past. This year, however, one word seemed to be commonplace both on the covers and inside some of these books and that is ‘courage’ or ‘courageous’. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be work on courageous leadership. It started me off on a spell of reflection and consideration as to what if anything such concepts might mean for or speak to social care in Scotland at this time.

One online definition from Google – much changed by Ai this past week- told me that:

‘Courageous leadership is a concept in leadership thought that emphasises the moral and ethical bravery required to lead with integrity, especially in the face of risk, uncertainty, or opposition. The main aspects include, moral courage, authenticity, resilience, an empowerment of others and long-term vision over short-term gain:’

Not much to disagree with there and indeed concepts of courage in leadership are age old even if books on the theme only started to appear with volume in the 1990s onwards.

But what does the recent resurgence of the idea of ‘courageous leadership’ have to say to social care and Scotland today?

We are certainly living in days of fragility and uncertainty. Every other day I get an email from someone either working in or providing services which raises concerns about the state of the sector and a sense of despair that no-one seems to be doing anything about it, except talking.

Indeed this past week I got an email from colleagues at Alzheimer Scotland which highlighted that their own ‘Stop the Cuts’ online campaign and petition had reached 10,000 signatories – a campaign which I would commend to you and which is seeking to draw attention to the withdrawal of critical support and care from thousands of individuals across the country – all of it happening out of sight and out of mind – as a result of savage cuts to budgets.

And yet in these days of intense uncertainty, when so much feels fragile, it is easy to lose ourselves in the immediacy of crisis and miss the deeper task that lies before us. That task, in Scotland today, is I believe first and foremost to ensure that older people are not only cared for, but valued, cherished, and enabled to flourish. Achieving this will demand not just competence, not just vision, but courageous leadership – in our politics, in our social care, and in the communities where older people live their lives.

Brené Brown, in one of the better recent books on courage in leadership, Dare to Lead, reminds us that:

“The courage to be vulnerable is not about winning or losing, it’s about the courage to show up when you can’t predict or control the outcome.”

That, I would argue, is precisely the challenge facing leaders in Scotland today. We cannot predict the future of social care funding, of demographic change, of the pressures on health and wellbeing. But we can – and must – show up with honesty, humility, and bravery. The problem all too often is a denial of truth, a willingness to take the easy route and arrogance of false assurance.

Too often, our discourse around older people drifts into deficit: cost, dependency, burden. This is not only morally wrong, but also socially and economically short‑sighted.

Courageous leadership, then, is the willingness to confront the uncomfortable truths: that our current systems are not adequate; that too many older Scots live with loneliness, poverty, or untreated ill‑health; and that tinkering at the edges will not suffice.

How you move from the inadequacy of the here and now to a future orientation is what matters and simply more of the same will not do the job. Something political leadership needs to be hearing as we move towards an election next year. Because courageous leadership in social care requires political bravery rather than tramline party conformity. It means telling hard truths about taxation and public spending. It means resisting the seduction of short-term fixes in favour of long-term transformation. Olaf Groth, writing in The Great Remobilization, warns that leaders in our time cannot simply manage disruption – they must anticipate and re design for it. Scotland’s ageing population is not a looming crisis to be feared, but a predictable reality to be planned for with creativity, compassion, and courage.

Another writer I have come across, Kirstin Ferguson, in her recent work Head & Heart: The Art of Modern Leadership, calls on leaders to bring both rational clarity and deep empathy to their roles. This balance is essential in social care. We must be analytical about budgets, workforce planning, and integration with health services – but we must also be profoundly human, listening to older people’s voices, respecting their dignity, and recognising their aspirations.

I often say that leadership in social care is not about heroic acts, but about everyday bravery. The carer who chooses to stay an extra 15 minutes with someone who is lonely. The manager who challenges unfairness even when it risks unpopularity. The politician who argues for investment in prevention, knowing the electoral rewards may be minimal. These are acts of what Brown calls “whole‑hearted leadership.”

But let us be clear: the stakes could not be higher. If we lack courage, we will condemn too many older Scots to lives of diminished wellbeing. If we embrace it, we have the chance to create a Scotland where older people not only live longer, but live better – where health, dignity, and purpose are not privileges, but rights.

We cannot avoid the realities of ageing. We cannot skirt around the inadequacies of current provision. We must go through – with vision, with honesty, with courage. And in doing so, we may yet build a Scotland where ageing is not feared but celebrated, and where courageous leadership makes older people’s wellbeing a cornerstone of our shared future.

 

As the great contemporary Nigerian born poet Niyi Osundare writes in ‘The Leader and the Led.’:

 

The Lion stakes his claim

To the leadership of the pack

 

But the Antelopes remember

The ferocious pounce of his paws

 

The hyena says the crown is made for him

But the Impalas shudder at his lethal appetite

 

The Giraffe craves a place in the front

But his eyes are too far from the ground

 

When the Zebra says it’s his right to lead

The pack points to the duplicity of his stripes

 

The Elephant trudges into the power tussle

But its colleagues dread his trampling feet

 

The warthog is too ugly

The rhino too riotous

 

And the pack thrashes around

Like a snake without a head

 

“Our need calls for a hybrid of habits,”

Proclaims the Forest Sage,

 

“A little bit of a Lion

A little bit of a Lamb

 

Tough like a tiger, compassionate like a doe

Transparent like a river, mysterious like a lake

 

A leader who knows how to follow

Followers mindful of their right to lead”

 

© Niyi Osundare 2

THE LEADER AND THE LED (Niyi Osundare)

 

Donald Macaskill

Scotland is experiencing significant demographic change. By 2045, one in four Scots will be over the age of 65. This shift demands a fundamental rethink of how we plan, deliver, and finance public services. Many bodies not least the Scottish Fiscal Commission alongside the Accounts Commission have argued that such change is urgent and immediate.

Yet despite their increasing numbers and contributions, older people are often marginalised in fiscal policy debates. Or at worst are the object of casual stereotype and victimisation.

National and local government budgets are drafted and analysed with limited attention to how public spending affects the diverse lives of older people – especially those experiencing poverty, disability, rural isolation, or multiple disadvantages. Or if they are considered it’s solely through a health or social care lens and priority.

While organisations such as Age Scotland and Age UK campaign for the rights of older people, there is currently no independent group in Scotland, or the wider UK tasked specifically with analysing the impact of public budgets on older people in the way the Women’s Budget Group (WBG) does for gender.

In this slightly extended thought piece, I am presenting one argument, namely that the establishment of an Older Persons Budget Group (OPBG) would fill a glaring gap – providing independent, evidence-based analysis and promoting age-inclusive policy development across all levels of government.

A Scotland (and UK) where public budgets and spending decisions reflect the rights, needs, and contributions of older people – ensuring equity, dignity, and inclusion for all in later life should surely be the aim of any or all political and civic leadership.

I started this thought from the premise that Scotland’s governments were not spending enough on our older citizens given their demographic weight. But in truth that’s not as simple argument to make as it might appear.

On the one hand the Scottish Government and local authorities commit significant sums to older Scots. Amongst other areas of spend we have Free Personal Care for older adults alone which costs around £900 million per annum. Local authority adult social work and care budgets rose from £4.3 billion in 2023-24, and £1.7 billion was specifically allocated for social care and integration in the 2023-24 budget. This integration involves 31 health and social care partnerships managing almost £9 billion of health and social care resources, according to Health and Social Care Scotland. Recent announcements on Winter Fuel payments to pensioners account for £100–300 million, targeted at over one million older Scots.

These figures sit within a total Scottish Budget of roughly £59.7 billion for 2024-25. On the face of it, then, older people represent large recipients.

But it’s not quite as simple or perhaps as positive. Currently, adults aged 50+ make up about 40% of Scotland’s population, with those 65+ being around 22%. If spending mirrors population share, older age groups would attract 22–40% of budget allocations. But the reality is more complex. Free personal care and concessionary travel skew toward older cohorts. Health and social care combined outstrip many other areas.

However, other demographic groups also benefit: children’s services, education, rural subsidies, universal benefits. On a strict per capita basis, older people receive robust support – but not overwhelmingly so.

So are older Scots being discriminated against in terms of fiscal spend?

Discrimination implies unfair under-provision, the absence of appropriate support, or a lack of inclusion. On pure expenditure, older Scots are not neglected. Yet any regular reader of my blogs will know how frequently I bemoan the reality that age-based barriers persist in healthcare treatment, social inclusion, and service access. That many older people – especially older women – face loneliness, digital exclusion, and precarious housing. That even at policy levels such as the Equality and Fairer Scotland Budget Statements which promise assessment of impacts on protected characteristics – often age and in particular older age are rarely singled out

Thus, while older people benefit from universal schemes, equality of outcome and lived experience may still fall short.

The House of Commons reported that the Public Sector Equality Duty often fails older people, and protections are weak. Ageism in services is still widespread: and it stated that in the NHS older patients report lack of dignity, de-prioritisation, and negative stereotyping.

This isn’t overt financial discrimination but a systemic, subtle form of injustice, rooted not in budgets per se, but in how budgets are shaped and lived.

Spending on older Scots is not negligible – it is significant, even generous. But generosity without insight risks injustice. Older people are not a homogenous mass of pensions and care. They are individuals-  diverse, local, living incomplete lives.

Similar arguments have been in the past made about women and these led to the formation of Women’s Budget Groups across the UK.

The Scottish Women’s Budget Group (SWBG), echoing the UK-wide WBG, has long scrutinised the gendered effects of budget decisions, embedding gender-responsive and care-led analysis into fiscal debate.

Their approach has both been to undertake impact-focused scrutiny: asking how spending/policy affects different genders. They have presented a robust evidence base which has sought to link budget lines with outcomes not least on care, justice and equality. And they have done all those with consistent advocacy both in parliamentary terms and in the media.

I would contend that an Older Persons Budget Group (OPBG) could usefully apply this model.

There could be many benefits such as a re-elevation of social care, health, social isolation, housing – all key ‘aged’ lenses for budgeting. Just as the WBG surfaces gender gaps, an OPBG could uncover how budget lines – like transport, digital access, social care – tangibly affect different older-age cohorts.

It would help to ensure that age becomes an explicit equality consideration in impact assessments. And importantly it would promote targeted support for older subgroups such as unpaid carers, the very old and the digitally excluded.

It would also act to accelerate inclusion into existing duties. Scotland’s advancing Public Sector Equality Duty (PSED) would benefit from formal mechanisms to assess how policies affect older populations – much in the way WBG urged for gender.

An Older Persons Budget Group (OPBG), inspired by the Women’s Budget Group (WBG), could be a transformative body in Scotland – or across the UK – providing independent, evidence-based fiscal analysis to assess how public spending decisions affect older people. Here’s how such a group might operate, structure itself, and create impact, drawing from proven models and the specific needs of ageing populations.

The practical formation and focus of an OPBG would be important.

I would suggest it needs to be an independent, and non-partisan organisation perhaps hosted by a civil society or academic institution (e.g. linked to universities, Age Scotland, or a foundation). With open membership representing the breadth of age and interests from older age advocates, gerontologists, care providers, industrial and employment interests, the creative sector etc, the OPBG would require a mix of funding sources to ensure independence and sustainability.

I’m imagining a scenario I come across all too frequently for such an OPBG.

Let’s say the Scottish Government proposes a £2bn increase in health spending but flattens social care funding. An OPBG could show that older people will benefit little from hospital-focused funding if care-at-home support declines and becomes unsustainable. It could highlight rural inequalities – where older people might be cut off from services due to reduced transport spending. It could publish a budget equity audit, noting that older women carers are disproportionately affected. And in turn it could advocate for reallocation: e.g. £100m redirected to community care and tech access for isolated pensioners.

The measure of a mature democracy is not in how loudly it applauds the aged, but in how honestly it budgets for their dignity. If we can gender our budgets, why can’t we age them too? An OPBG would not simply count pennies; it would count people – in their wisdom, their contribution, and their human worth.

So, let’s start the desire for a more equitable budgetary process which considers age as essential. And in words I have often quoted let us remember Joe Biden when he said: “Don’t tell me what you value, show me your budget, and I’ll tell you what you value.”

Donald Macaskill

Photo by Jakub Żerdzicki on Unsplash