Today is the first anniversary of mum's death. I went to work as normal as I thought it would be a bit self-indulgent to take the day off. But I made sure I took some time at lunchtime to be alone and to think about mum. Of course I think about her all the time and I still feel as I've always felt: that she is still a powerful presence in my life. But this time, maybe for the first time since she died, I went looking for thoughts of her.

It was hard actually. Not hard to find thoughts and memories but harder to deal with them than I expected. Because for all that I do feel she is still a big part of my life, I do really, really miss her too. I keep debating the question "Do I wish she was still here" and really, I don't. Her death was a merciful release from years of suffering and pain so I know without doubt that I wouldn't have wished her another day of that. That made coming to terms with her death a lot easier. I've always tried not to wish for some state of the world that didn't actually exist where she was in normal health for a woman in her early 70s, alert and vigorous like so many of her friends. What good would that do?

But today at lunchtime I did rather wish for that. I wished that she was still here and I could take her out for lunch or bring her up to London and cook her dinner in my flat . Not to be alas. I was happysad as well: proud and happy of her extraordinary life and example, proud of how warmly everyone remembers her and dad. Just proud, extraordinarily proud, that she was my mum and nothing can ever change or take that away.