Helper

I’m camping in France. It’s hot.

I’m working.

A while ago I had a call from an old boss, to see if I could come on holiday with him and his wife. Many people refer to the work I’m doing here as caring. He refers to it as helping.

About thirty years ago I worked for him as a “Helper” for a few years. He taught be everything about the difference between being a carer, and being a helper. Because he didn’t want somebody to look after him. To care for him. He didn’t need somebody who knew what was best for him.

He wanted somebody to help him do the things he needed to do during a day, in order to run his business and live his life.

And I learnt, back then, that despite the fact that he had a masters degree and his own business, it didn’t count for much in many folks eyes when there was somebody pushing his wheel chair. To many people who passed by the lackey, me, was still the one to talk to. It still makes me cross now.

Anyway, it’s nice to catch up with Paul and his wife again. Laughing about the old times - I actually went on honeymoon with them you know (but that’s another story) - and the new times.

We’re camping in France. It’s hot.

And I’m working - trust me I’m working - whatever Ineke and my foster boys think.