This is my little boy and his Mummy being taken up to the ward for his (thankfully successful) operation. His little hand gripping hers with all his strength.
He went to the anaesthetic room already in his bed, little determined face set firm, apart from one little tear from eye, betraying the fear.
Arguments over the what is an idea or an execution, the minor victories, the constanr disappointments. It doesn't really matter.
Today's project will be forgotten tomorrow. It's only a job. It doesn't win wars, it doesn't save lives. It doesn't even get noticed most of the time.
This is what matters, this. The little hand in his Mother's, that one tear.
This.
NORTHERN PLANNER 
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