I wake and I’m alone, sore and sticky and cold. Grey-white light floods the room. Stabbing sensation in my head. I sit up slowly and puke all over the beautiful cream soft-pile carpet. I get up to go to the toilet and then I’m on my knees, on the cold tiled floor, wave after wave of it coming up and out of me. Please God, no. Not on my knees, never on my knees. I force myself to stand. Please forgive me for what I’ve done. Who is this God I’m crying out to? What the hell has He ever done for me? When the tidal wave stops, I get a facecloth and soap and try to remove the sick and the staining. There is a floral scented room spray, ‘Spring Bouquet’ it says, and I spritz and I spritz. Then I turn on the shower and stand under its scalding spray. This is one of those tropical rainforest showers, the ones that spray you from all directions to make sure you’re clean inside and out. Floaters float before my eyes and I give myself a little slap. Wouldn’t do to faint and be found naked in a shower. The shame of that, Mother. I step out, dry myself off, put back on the skirt and top, bundling the underwear into the handbag. They need to be put in a plastic bag and drowned.

I have to get out of this room, out of this place, back through that door, that portal. As I walk slowly along the corridor I see there is no red carpet beneath my feet. It’s all cream, subdued, and in perfectly good taste. Mr Butler appears, and I do my best to light him up with my mega-wattage smile that I’ve been told illuminates me from within. Nothing happens. The batteries are dead. He opens the door and I see that our golden chariot awaits. I hope the slumbering princess is inside, I hope she’s ok, the most I can hope for is that she survived. Taxi Joe has a look of disgust on his face as he sees me, bare-footed, bare-arsed (although I’m pretty sure he can’t tell that), stepping carefully over the gravel. Wouldn’t do to get a splinter now, would it?

I climb into the back seat and can hear Dad’s voice: ‘Ok, love, you’ll be right as rain in no time. You’ll see.’ Dad of the bland. What does that even mean anyway? What the fuck is right about rain? Sleep is the antidote. Sleep is the thing, to numb, to recuperate, rejuvenate, re-charge the batteries. When we wake later today all this will be a distant memory, although thank fuck I won’t have many of those. The head is not working properly yet. That is definitely the way to do it. Wipeout.