They all gather together round the Christmas tree in the waiting room. They take their chairs. When the trolley comes they queue up like sleepwalkers. Instead of presents, they are given their pills. Jack is given his first measure of Librium. Then, with the others, he takes a chair. Everyone lights up.

The first heavy cheerfulness reaches him.

Jack was on the phone to wish everyone he knew a happy Christmas. The first person he rang was his mother.

“Happy Christmas,” he said.

He heard her turn aside and whisper to his father: “It’s Jack, he sounds quite sensible.”

“Where are you?” his mother asked.

“Oh,” he said, “in north Tipperary.”

“Of all places,” she said. “What took you there?”

“The want of wit,” said Jack.

She handed him over to his father.

“So you won’t be coming up to these parts?” asked his father.

“I’m in a hospital. I didn’t want to tell her.”

“Did someone put something into your drink?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, it happens to us all. If you want anything let us know.”

“I will, thanks.”

He handed the phone on to the next patient, and thought – it’s not so bad. It’s not so bad being crazy.

“My woman said I had buried myself in drink,” he tells the night nurse.

“You have to learn to love yourself first.”

“How can I love someone who is not there?”

“Clint Eastwood is Laurel Hardy’s son. Did you know that?” asked Leitrim.

“No,” said Jack.

“There’s not a word about it,” said the nurse, as he palmed tobacco out of a pouch. He had his legs stretched out so that his feet rested on a chair in front of him. He recrossed his legs and jiggled his feet.

“Have you got UTV here?” asked Jack.

“We have indeed.” He switched stations. Jack stared at the TV screen intently. The news was on. He watched every move and listened to every line with fascination.

Then the ad for lager came on.

“Jesus,” said Jack.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked the nurse.

“I know someone in it,” answered Jack.

The nurse burst out laughing.

“Of course he does,” said Leitrim. “Jack knows everyone.”

With trepidation Jack watched Princess Diana walk up a snowy lane in Scotland. Africans, laden with bundles, trooped towards a food distribution centre. An American announcer ran footage of a plane crash. Survivors of some catastrophe sat on a hillside in blankets. Then the break for advertisements came. Still, when the lager advertisement appeared the next time Jack was not ready for it. He held his hand palm upward in front of the TV to block his view. His eyes watered.

“Do you want me to change the station?” asked a woman.

“No,” he said, “it’s all right.”

“What ails you, Jack?” the nurse asked.

“It’s the sight of the beer,” the woman explained. “It’s making him thirsty.”