There’s a scar on my palm; it is dirty and rough. I got it raking the lawns of the well to do in the blistering heat of summer. Somewhere, in a postcode that shares its letters but not its numbers, my two little girls run through the woods and pretend that I am hiding behind the next tree. But I am not; I stand in the shade of a well pruned oak and try to pick the earth from beneath my nails. At…