The pensioners

Djevdet Osman, 78

I would say I look after my wife 24 hours a day. I wash her, do the cooking, wash the clothes and do the housework, I change her and make her bath and wash her hair. In Cyprus I was a police officer, then when we came here I worked as a carpenter, then a painter and decorator. It was hard work, but I enjoyed it. I had to retire early, in 1986, because I had diabetes, and eight years ago I had a triple heart bypass.

It's hard to be a carer at first when you're not are used to it, but it gets easier. Nowadays I get nervous though, when she is upset with the pain. I get distressed, but I don't know why.

When we were young we would go out, but when you are older you are happy staying in together. I go to the cafe with my friends and to the carers' centre – sometimes on my own and sometimes with my wife – because it's not good to spend all your time indoors.

Without our children, life would be very hard for us. I can't drive now because of my eyes. I can't do the ironing and they do all that.

Emine Osman, 70

I was 16 when I married, and I had never seen my husband before: in the old days in northern Cyprus your mother and father would arrange your marriage. We have been married for 54 years now and have six children. We came to the UK in the 60s. It was very difficult – I didn't speak English and it was so cold.

I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis when I was 22. One day I got up and couldn't hold the baby. When they told me I panicked, but I was young – I got used to it. It's a very, very sharp pain and you get stiff and can't move. After the menopause, it got much worse. It comes in attacks and sometimes I can't move, eat, or drink. I can't even turn over in the bed.

When our children lived at home they looked after me. They didn't mind, they loved me. But they went to university, so then my husband took over. He has diabetes and now he keeps forgetting things – like when to take his medication. He has become really anxious. He lost the sight in one eye and his hearing and that has made him nervous. But we don't have a choice. Some days we feel close and some days I am in pain and nervous and shouting, and some days he is nervous and shouting.

When you are together a long, long time you become much closer. We look after each other. My children come at the weekend and clean the house, bring us the heavy shopping, do the ironing. They are very good, thank God.

The professional relationship

Kim Ellis, 47, senior support worker

Andrew rang me the other day and said: "I'm in Amersham having a full breakfast." And I thought, "Oh, God!" It's like a mother-child relationship. Maybe it's my age, but I do get people asking if Andrew is my son.

I came to work at the flat where he lives as a support worker for him, and for Jerry, who has multiple sclerosis. Andrew would sit in his armchair all day – he was three stone overweight and was always in jogging pants; his carers did everything for him.

I thought: "I could change his life." He has so much going for him. He has a slight learning difficulty, but we can get over that. He is bubbly, too, always laughing and really caring.

People think if you are blind you can just get a cane and go, but you can't. You have to learn the routes and go over and over them. We went out day and night – just to get him into town. I spent years on it. But it's so rewarding; to know now he can go to the bank whenever he wants to and go to the gym. Sometimes I feel like I am here all the time as, on top of my shifts, I end up doing quite a lot in my spare time.

One day we went to karaoke and I saw he was singing along. I said "Why don't you get up?", and he sang an Elvis song right off. I couldn't believe it when I heard him – it would bring tears to your eyes. When he is entertaining everyone and singing, I do get people patting me on the back and saying: "The change in him is amazing." I am so proud of him.

He already has two big bookings for December. And I think if he can get the right equipment, some new suits and someone to help him set up, he could do it professionally. When the wig is on, he's a different character – he goes round kissing the old ladies' hands. He asked me to come and join him singing once, but that's one thing I refused to do for him.

Andrew Stewart, 25, Elvis impersonator

When Kim arrived in my life, everything changed. She said: "Right, Andrew, let's get cracking." I had been stuck in the flat all the time before she arrived. I  couldn't do anything.

Now I go to old people's homes as an Elvis impersonator. Kim is like my personal assistant – she puts up my music system and I have the full suit – so off I go. Everyone loves it.

I lost my sight when I was three due to suspected meningitis and a brain tumour. My mum has severe depression and I was taken into care from the age of 15. At college I learned cooking, but only simple things like making toast.

Kim took me into town and taught me the routes to the bus stop and the pub. A mobility instructor said it was too risky for me to go out alone, but when Kim was told "He can't do this or that" she said, "Well, he can." Now I can go to the leisure centre, and on buses – there's literally no stopping me! We went bowling, rock-climbing, ice-skating together. We even went to America two years ago and took a tour of Louisana, Memphis and Nashville.

My life has changed: I am taking a grade five singing exam, I have a computer that reads my mail, and I can go on the internet. I have a slow cooker I use, and I am training with a guide dog.

Kim and I have a very special relationship: whenever I need help she's there. If Kim decided to retire, God forbid, I don't know what I would do. I couldn't do without her.

• Since this interview took place, recent funding cuts, and a reassessment of Andrew's needs, mean that Kim no longer cares for him.

The friends

Colin Barrett, 52, nurse

I had just started climbing when the teacher running the course introduced me to Martin. Martin was planning a trip down the River Mino in Spain to see if it could work as an adventure holiday for his charity, and was putting together a support team. I knew Martin had a disability, but I am fit and healthy and some of the things I have seen through nursing made me want to help people who are less able.

Martin is always inspiring; he has such an adventurous spirit. Once he gets an idea, he gets really enthusiastic and carries you along. We got on well together from the first trip.

At the beginning, I only had to help him with shaving and getting his trousers on. He was more independent then, so the caring was a progression from that for me. I found it just a continuation of our friendship. I think he found it hard though.

I don't think of myself in terms of being a carer – I just think of Martin as a friend I help to go on trips. It has brought us closer though. He will ring me up now and we discuss much more intimate things than we did originally. At first I suppose it was a bit more blokey. Now there is a lot of trust. He is my closest friend. I'm widowed and Martin gets me involved with things that I would never have done. I really enjoyed our coast-to-coast trip, for instance, but I wouldn't have done it without Martin – I hadn't been on a bike for 20 years.

Nine years ago when Martin was very ill, we thought that was his last adventure because he was so frail, but now we think there will be many more.

Martin Symons, 43

I found it very awkward at first to have someone help me; embarrassed. It took me a while to get used to even my sister caring for me. I live at home with my mum and stepfather and my sister, who is my full-time carer. But Colin now acts as my carer while we are away on trips and I found it easier with him, because he was a nurse. He is very practical and doesn't flinch.

I met Colin through a mutual friend in 1999. I was looking for someone to accompany me on a trip paddling down the River Mino in a canoe. It was about 25 miles altogether, in Canadian canoes, over five days. When we first met, Colin was quite shy. He didn't have to do much for me – I didn't allow it – but as time went on I needed more help.

I have Klippel Feil syndrome – it's a skeletal deformity that I have had since birth and which causes the bones in the neck to fuse. My symptoms include scoliosis and kyphosis (front and side curvature of the spine), encephalocele (a fluid sack protruding from the base of the skull), clubbed feet, restricted movement in all joints, respiratory problems and aplastic anaemia.

I used to be completely mobile: I walked in the Himalayas, Ben Nevis and Snowdon. So, I set up a charity to enable disabled people to participate in adventure holidays. But nine years ago I had respiratory failure – I caught pneumonia and had to go into intensive care. Afterwards I had to start all over again.

Now my sister has to help me have a bath. I don't have the strength to make myself a hot dinner. I can walk around the house and to the car – a short walk. But if we are going out, someone has to push me in a wheelchair. The other day I realised I had not been out alone for nine years.

Our trips have been really bonding. Our latest adventure was a coast-to-coast bike ride along Hadrian's wall – I was on a Boma; a cross between a motorised wheelchair and a bike. Colin had to help with my showering, and in the mornings he would come in to change my urinary bag. Because of the curvature of my side – my kinks – the skin on my side rubs together so he has to make sure that's not happening and, if it is, he puts a pad on it.

Perhaps if I had met him for the first time just before the trip it would have been a different relationship. More distant.

Now I can tell Colin things I would not tell anyone else. Since I moved to Norfolk we have been chatting on email, and waiting for the next adventure.

The couple

Alex Robinson, 22, part-time law student

Sarah told me really early on that she had cystic fibrosis. But when you meet someone you like, there are more important things to worry about.

Sometimes I have to do pretty much everything for her. It wasn't a problem for me doing such intimate things even at the beginning – it felt natural.

Her mobility has decreased in the last few years and when she is having serious chest problems I have to make up her medicines and make sure her oxygen is working at night. I feel proud she trusts me with all this – some nurses aren't even trained to do it. It can be a mental strain; when she is on medication she is completely knocked out, so it can be quite lonely.

When I told people at university that I was a carer, the reaction was just, "Oh right", and then they would walk away. It's difficult for people to understand. I just went into university for the classes – the rest of the time I was studying at home and looking after Sarah. But I have a good social life. We often go to the pub and we have friends in our local who are fantastic. They are all a bit older than me – in their 40s. I think older people understand my work more easily.

Money is a problem. I had £7,000 in savings when I arrived at university, from working in a call centre 20 hours a week while I was in college, but that flew out of the bank. I couldn't work for the last three years because I was caring for Sarah, and I got no state support for that because I was in full-time education.

I think our situation has made us stronger. We are very close; we spend all day together in the house. If I have any problems I can talk to her about them, even if it is about her health. The only thing I resent is seeing the effect of the illness on her. Seeing her in pain is horrible – but you have to put up with it.

I love her and want to make sure she is OK and provide her with comfort and support.

Sarah Dorey, 22

We were both aware that Alex would have to be my carer when we moved in together at 19.

We were 17 when we met online on a Manic Street Preachers forum. We started chatting and texting each other and clicked straight away. Alex knew about my cystic fibrosis from the start, but it was never an issue.

I lived in Bournemouth and he lived up in Preston so we took it in turns to visit each other and then, when he started university in Bristol, we moved in together. I was worried about putting pressure on Alex when he was at uni, but he said he would rather have me with him, and look after me, than not have me.

I was diagnosed when I was two. My illness affects my lungs and I also have diabetes and osteoporosis. I get out of breath easily and very tired, so if I am going out, I go in my wheelchair.

Moving away from home was hard; my mum had looked after me for 19 years and I was anxious about leaving her, my support network, and of course the hospital. My parents trusted Alex to look after me, they wanted me to be as independent as possible.

Alex trained to administer my intravenous medication and this helps me stay at home – otherwise I would have to be in hospital for weeks at a time. If I am not well I need intravenous antibiotics four times a day, and simple things like getting up or getting dressed can seem huge; this happens about once a month. I put my life in Alex's hands and it could have gone horribly wrong – but it didn't.

I didn't find it difficult when he started doing these things for me – because when you are used to being in hospital, where people come in and poke you and move you around you get used to being handled. And when you are really not well, you don't care about being embarrassed.

I am very reliant on Alex. I don't have a friendship network down here as I can't get out to meet people. The worst thing is that when I am not well, he really worries. I don't think I could cope if I was in his position. He's very strong. I have a lot of respect for him.

We have been together for five years. It's the perfect relationship. But when people see me in my wheelchair they assume he's my brother; I think they think it's strange that anyone would go out with someone in a wheelchair. I wish we could be more of a couple, sometimes – so much of the time he is looking after me. But we just try to do nice things together and not to dwell on it.

It is probably a more intense relationship than that of most people our age. I suppose it is quite romantic – just the fact he loves me enough to do all this. Knowing that someone is sacrificing things for you is more romantic than flowers – although when you are being sick all day it doesn't feel like it.

The professional relationship

Anna Gasik, 21, support worker

When you are a support worker you have to see things from someone else's point of view. If you think, "Oh God, this is a problem" when faced with washing someone, then this job isn't for you. I love the job. I like the interaction with Sian. She is great.

When I was small I wanted to be a firefighter or a police officer, always something to help people. But my mother worked as a support worker in Italy and I used to watch everything she did, so I think that influenced me. I came to the UK from Poland three years ago, and have been a support worker for two years.

I come to Sian's on a Sunday morning. I get her out of bed, make coffee, make the bed, dress her, bath her, clean everything. On Wednesday evenings I come and bathe her, and on Thursday I put her to bed at 10.30pm. I stay for two hours each time.

I like the contact with people. The work can be physically hard – as well as Sian, I look after another woman called Liz and in between I work as a cleaner – so sometimes I am very tired. But when I come here, I laugh all the time. And I have been teaching Sian some Polish too.

You have to behave differently with different people. Sometimes you have to stay calm, sometimes you are nervous and have had enough. Every moment is different. It is a big responsibility to take on this job and look after someone. Some people say this work is more physical than mental, but I don't agree. You have to think about everything – what could go wrong. If your concentration slips, you can make a mistake. I think it is easier that Sian keeps things professional.

I really enjoy coming here, and I feel Sian is a big part of my life – like part of my family.

Sian Vasey, 54

I employ about nine people regularly, and have done for 24 years. I have spinal muscular atrophy [an hereditary condition in which cells of the spinal cord die and the muscles in the arms and legs become progressively weaker].

When I was a child my mother did everything for me, of course, and I remember asking her how I would manage when I was older. She just said: "You will have to get other people to help you." So it's something I am accustomed to.

There are huge benefits from employing your own support workers; you have independence, you have control. You can go out where you want. I need help getting up and getting dressed so my support workers come in for two-hour shifts.

My support worker drives me to work [as an independent living director for Ealing council in London], helps me get on and off the loo, and gets me food. I have increasing problems with typing so I also need someone to do that.

Then in the evening I need help getting washed, undressed and put into bed. It can be intrusive - but I am at an advantage in not having to have people with me all the time. It's intense being with one other person – you need some breathing space.

You do have to be a manager in your own home – which can be tiring. I would say it is the same level of bother as having two children. There are certain qualities you need in support workers - the main one is understanding routine. For instance, in the bathroom you want things done in a specific order. My hair is a bone of contention - it's a big, wiry mess, so it is trying to get it pulled back so it looks all right.

Anna is very good. She's very bright, very clever. She immediately understood she was supposed to learn the routine and do it. She's helping me learn my lines for a play I'm in and advises me on technique. You can get along with a lot of people, but it helps if people are efficient, fast and remember what to do.

I am a product of an era when you could get a care package without too much difficulty. Already now, before the cuts have come into effect, the system is very ungenerous. I don't know what people are going to do when they come in. The people I see at work supporting disabled people are often not getting an adequate package and their lives are curtailed. The cuts are going to be desperate. It could be catastrophic. We will get a re-emergence of the disability movement, which hasn't disappeared, but is not as edgy as it once was. But the needs will be there - exposed and raw, and people will be having the kind of time you had in the 60s - but back then we didn't know things could be different.