Two weeks after definite diagnosis I am pleased to say that Finley is a different little boy. Now enjoying a completely gluten free diet, he’s put weight back on, got all his energy back, is talking for England, eating everything that is put in front of him (and more) and is generally back to the little monster I knew before Coeliac's got a grip of him.

The diet is surprisingly easy to follow, though the bread is strange and most of the biscuits a little too chalky, but while it bothers me, Finley doesn’t seem to care and will eat anything as long as I can guarantee that Batman made it.

Alongside the funny textures, there is also the horror of the astronomical prices the big supermarkets charge for gluten free products (I thought Mark was going to faint when he picked up a little packet of Bourbon biscuits on sale for £2.49!): though as soon as we are suitably organised many everyday products like bread, flour, pasta, crackers and biscuits will be available on prescription free of charge.

While I am glad that it is all over: that we have a diagnosis, and it is absolutely treatable, there is a big part of me that feels guilty that I didn’t do something sooner, and that Finley had to get to the stage where he was both dehydrated and wasting away before my eyes, before I could get the medical people to believe that this was more than "the relaxed muscles of a child's stomach" or worse: constipation. I should have kicked up more of a fuss; acknowledged earlier that something was very wrong with Finley and demanded that something be done about it.

I don’t suppose it matters now. But I’m a Mum and I am allowed to beat myself up.