Mum and I have both had a respite break. I visited friends, met up with pals from Australia and Canada and old friends from uni. I ate out, saw exhibitions, went to museums, watched movies. I packed in everything I could and had a great time. But I also got a cold and a stomach bug – possibly because I’m a bit run down – and when I got back here I was very tired.

For mum it was quite the opposite! She’d also enjoyed her break. She’d stayed in a residential home where the people are friendly and nice. They like her and she likes them. The change did her the world of good and she came home lively and energised from having some company. But she’d also got institutionalised which meant she expected me to work even harder than normal. So, for a while, we’ve been at sixes and sevens.

For instance: she’s still able to manage her own medication. She has three eggcups, one for the breakfast pills, one for lunch, one for dinner – and she sorts out the right pills into the different cups. All I have to do is help her get the pills out of their packaging, which is difficult for someone with bent-up arthritic fingers.

But at the home, they dished out the medication, and now mum has forgotten how to do her pills. She can’t remember which ones to take, and then she forgets if she’s taken them. In fact, if I don’t watch her with hawk eyes, she’s likely to take a double dose – and with the amount of painkillers she takes, this would not be a good idea.

She’s not only got out of the habit of doing a few small chores she can still do for herself, she’s also lost confidence in her own judgement. Every five minutes she asks me: Shall I change my shoes? Shall I have a drink? Shall I take the pills? What TV channels shall I watch? To which I reply, variously: I don’t know/ It doesn’t matter/ No, mum, don’t do it /Mum, I told you not to do it / Oh, do what you like.

I know mum’s condition will never improve but I don’t want to hasten the proceedings by letting her become lazy minded. So I’ve been trying hard to get her back to doing stuff for herself. And things are improving, slowly.

However, there’s one issue on which I simply can’t compete. At the care home, they have a proper chef. And it seems my meals just don’t compare with his! Mum keeps telling me, ‘this meal is quite nice, dear, but it’s not as good as what they served me at the home……’ All I can do is grit my teeth and nod. ‘Sorry mum, but this is the best I can do.’