The days bled into one another in a codeine- and boredom-induced haze. I did some work on Karen’s site, emailing the new draft to her. I tinkered with the Wowcom campaign. What else did I do? Looking back is like straining to see through misted glass, or watching a slow-moving, faded movie in which all the scenes have been chopped up and jumbled.

I watched TV. I browsed Facebook and eBay and Buzzfeed until my eyes throbbed. I tried to read, but the words wouldn’t go in and I would read the same paragraphs over and over before giving in. I waited for Charlie to come round. I tried to ignore the itching beneath the cast.

A lot of the time, I slept. The codeine gave me vivid dreams that would have impressed and terrified Salvador Dali, dreams in which I floated on clouds with talking tigers, or was a member of an American street gang, mowing down motherfuckers with an Uzi. I had that Miley Cyrus song, ‘Wrecking Ball,’ stuck in my head and it went round and round and round so many times that I wanted to cut my own head off to escape it.

And all the while, the snow kept falling. In one of my codeine dreams, I imagined the snow burying the streets, reaching my fourth-floor window and causing me to mount a daring escape, gliding across the vanished city on a tea tray to rescue Charlie. Except I was the one who needed rescuing: I was Rapunzel, or that guy in Rear Window. I felt like I was going mad, and only Charlie, who came round every evening and stayed over, kept me from slipping into insanity.

‘It’s your own fault for buying that fourth-floor flat,’ Tilly said, teasing me. ‘Otherwise I’d come round and visit. If you lived on the ground floor, we could get you a wheelchair and could have races.’

‘You’d whip my arse.’

‘True dat. Oh, guess what? Rachel’s got a boyfriend. His name’s Henry and he’s a Hells Angel.’

‘Really?’

‘Actually, they’re not real Angels, are they? The Eastbourne and Pevensey Motorcycle Club.’ She sniggered. ‘You should see him. He’s about seven foot tall, with a beard almost that long, and more tats than David Beckham. Nice chap, though.’

‘That’s so sweet. Do they go out riding together?’

‘Yeah, she gives him backies.’ She laughed dirtily.

‘And what about your love life?’ I asked, somewhat tentatively.

‘You see the weather outside? Cold, bleak, no sign of a thaw? Well, it’s like that.’

‘Maybe Henry has a friend?’ I could just see Tilly in the arms of a hairy biker.

‘Oh, puh-lease.’