I’m lying perfectly still with my eyes shut, enjoying this period of prelapsarian bliss as I try to fill in the gaps from last night. There are plenty of them. I remember the biscuit tin and the fog of self-pity, but I can’t remember Daff coming home. I can’t remember doing the tree. I can’t even remember coming down from the attic.

Oh please God, don’t let me have slept in the attic.

I experiment with turning my head very gently to the side. There’s no blinding migraine or sudden desire to be sick, which is encouraging. I also seem to be lying on a comfortable pillow and mattress, which bodes well for the please-God-don’t-let-me-have-slept-in-the-attic situation.

I decide to risk it and open my eyes. But it’s not a headache that hits me – it’s cold, hard terror.

I scramble upright, suddenly wide wide WIDE awake, my heart head-butting my ribcage.

Where the HELL am I?

It’s like my brain is still a few seconds behind my eyes, struggling to process the information it’s receiving. The bogey-green curtains; the scratchy Brillo-pad carpet; the poky brown cupboard that hides a grubby little sink and mirror within it.

I hear a low, slightly manic moan from somewhere, and then realise it’s coming from my mouth.

This is … this is uni. This is my bedroom in the first year at uni.

Have I gone mad? Is this what going mad feels like?

Or maybe … maybe this is some kind of elaborate – really elaborate – prank. I suddenly remember an awful interactive theatre experience that Harv dragged me along to once, where the audience ended up as part of the show. We were led into the middle of this extravagant stage and forced to start shaping the plot by ad-libbing with the actors. Maybe this is something similar. If so, then whoever designed the set deserves every award going. It’s literally exactly as I remember it.

I feel my head start to pound, the hangover kicking in now, but then I notice the door handle is rattling frantically and the thumping is actually coming from outside the room.

‘Ben? You in there? Ben!’

The handle jiggles again, but it seems the door is locked.

‘Benjaminnnnnnnn?’ It’s Harv’s voice. Thank God for that.

I stumble to my feet, my heart still thundering, and notice that I’m dressed in a pair of jeans I don’t recognise and my old Wu-Tang Clan hoodie. I thought I’d lost this thing years ago.

I open the door and immediately have to fight the urge to start laughing.

It’s Harv, but it also … isn’t.