Decades ago, I lived in a house where my neighbour, Joanne, in the flat below was a senior nurse who worked in an operating theatre. Over time we became good friends. She told me how she was stern and scrupulous in ensuring that everything in her working environment which needed to be sterile was indeed kept sterile and that no stray items were ever where they shouldn’t be. Surfaces had to be left scrubbed and bare. The surgeons were terrified of her.

Yet, at home, her flat was a riotous jumble, discarded clothes thrown over chairs or on the floor, used breakfast bowls and mugs left teetering in the sink, drawers left hanging open after panicked searching for something lost, letters tossed aside any which way, regardless of importance. Those surgeons wouldn’t have believed it.

I thought of her again recently (she emigrated to New Zealand many years ago and, sadly, we lost touch) when I was visiting, in a voluntary capacity, a woman diagnosed with what is now termed complex PTSD. She had suffered serious emotional and occasional physical neglect as a child and has always had enormous difficulty managing her emotions. Velma is highly talented. She can carry out almost any practical task, always has the right tool for........

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