So, we’re half way through the first week of the holidays already. Friday was the last day of school and I went first to collect DD, who hurried past me, head bowed. I caught up with her at the school gate and after a failed attempt at conversation, discovered that she was crying. The big, fat tears plopping onto her shoes gave her away. Between the sniffs and wails, it emerged that she missed her teacher already. We went back to say goodbye again, but she was utterly distraught.

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I have had *the* best day. I went up to the big smoke (London) on the train. We will gloss over the trauma of visiting my Mum (90 this year) in the morning and her not knowing who I am, then getting upset at forgetting her daughter and doing the weeping and breast-beating thing. This is nothing new and I am not distressed by it any longer. She usually remembers my children and when I have them with me, she knows who I am so it is usually OK. Sometimes she even remembers me when I am on my own, but sometimes she doesn’t.

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I think I may have missed my calling. It is increasingly apparent that I have healing hands. Sometimes just one touch is enough, for other patients major surgery may be required to deal with the damage, but the result is always a new lease of life and thisI find deeply satisfying.

And who are my patients, you may wonder. People? Animals? Plants, perhaps? Nope…

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