It used to offend me, a little, the casual assumption that I was hopeless at most practical things – despite the crushing evidence that it was true. I can’t bake, I’m an indifferent cook, I have no discernible household skills and I am both clumsy and cack-handed, with a long string of comedy accidents to my name, ranging from the serious – falling down the stairs, splitting my skull open, breaking my arm (twice! in succession!) – to the ridiculous (tripping over my friend’s dog, falling down more stairs only to hit a ladder at the bottom, etc…).

And in truth, some of my uselessness comes from natural disinclination to learn or apply myself to things that don’t interest me, so could be overcome with a bit of effort (though I suspect I’m stuck with the clumsiness for life). But while in the past I have been prickly with defensiveness at the idea of asking people for help (what if they think I’m useless?) to being totally OK with it (because, let’s face it, I often am).

In part this is a result of being back home, surrounded by people who survived my catastrophe prone youth so have spent half their lives ferrying me back and forth to A&E, and so hold no illusions about my gracefulness. In part maybe it’s getting older and embracing the things I am good at – I give stellar presents, know about cool events, and am very good at random thoughtful giftage, plus I will never turn up at your house without a bottle in my hand – and being OK about other people helping out with the rest.

So I was just straightforwardly pleased when, after a week that has seen me laid low with a massive allergic reaction that has seen my face swell up and turn scaly (NICE! I look a treat on all those Zoom calls) AND when I am on my last plaster cos I cut my hand on a broken glass, my lovely friend M turned up with this care package…

What can I say? She gets me, she really gets me.