I’m put on a trolley and wheeled into a room with those laser-sharp white lights that land on my skin like needles. Déjà vu. Strong hands hold me as I’m told to lie still and a tube is forced down my neck. The sound of a hoover, and then my body surrenders to whatever is happening. I go under and in spite of the heat and the noise and the light, I sleep like a baby sucking on a whiskey-soaked doodie. The smell of antiseptic and the bustle of the nurses is weirdly familiar and comforting.

When I wake there’s a needle in my arm attached to a drip, and there are scrappy geraniums by the bed. Mother’s favourite; my least. A male nurse comes in with tea, OJ, toast and cornflakes. Seriously? My throat feels like it had sandpaper rubbed inside and rammed down it. My stomach could be ripped. This guy looks like he’s dancing to a tune only he can hear.

‘Sleep well?’

I nod, and point to my throat, making an ‘ouchy’ face. He looks at my chart at the bottom of the bed. ‘I’ll get you some jelly and ice cream as a special treat.’

He has left the glass of OJ by the bed and I try to suck some down but it just comes straight back up. I lie back, curled on my side, staring at the white wall, blanked-out. Tiredness is a great antidote to thinking too much. I store that one away for later use.

Someone coughs and says, ‘Mind if I sit down?’ It sounds like Doc O’D. Fuck.

‘Go ahead,’ I say, still facing the wall, biting down on my lips to get the blood flowing, to make them red and pouty. I have great lips. Every guy I’ve ever been with has said that to me; David called me Ms Blowjob Lips.

‘Do you think you can turn to look at me?’

I roll over and try to sit up.

The man stands and plumps up the pillows behind my back. ‘How are you feeling?’ It’s not Doc O’D, but a small, muscular man, like a jockey, with a paunch. He wouldn’t look out of place in that hovel I just came from. The corners of my mouth curl into a smirk.

‘I’m Doctor Maloney, in-house psychiatrist here, and I wonder if you’d like to have a talk with me about what happened?’

I point to my throat to signify it’s too sore to speak.

He goes to the bedside locker and pours me some water. ‘Here.’

I try to swallow. It’s like knives in there now.

‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about? Something going on at home?’