The light outside is white and stabbing and my eyes feel like they’re being jabbed. When the bus stops, I get on and try to count out the fare but my fingers and thumbs are all thick and swollen. I keep dropping the money til some little aul wan behind me pipes up, ‘Can I help you, dearie?’

She counts out the change, handing me back the rest. She probably thinks I’m off my head. My eyes water. I rub them roughly. That’s enough ‘dearie’. No more room for being a drip. I put my hand in my bag to get my phone only to discover I left it behind. Probably for the best; time to cut the cord.

‘Would you mind if I borrowed your phone? I could pay you? I’ve lost mine and it’s an emergency.’ My voice is slurry and thick, and I point to her phone and make the call sign. I offer her a tenner. She hands me the phone, refusing the money. The line connects and I try to make my voice distinct, but all that comes out is a mumble.

The woman on the other end says, ‘I don’t do business with junkies. Get yourself clean and call me back.’

The line goes dead. I hand the phone back to the aul dear, who asks if everything is ok. She’s staring at my arm where the needle point is bleeding through. I smile at her and nod. I don’t press the stop-button til the last minute; don’t want her following me.

I get off the bus in the centre of town, go to a chemist and stick three Band-Aids on, then to Macker’s and get myself a chocolate shake. It goes down well, all cool and smooth and sugary. I feel a bit better after, although the ground is still roiling beneath my feet, and I kind of surf myself along the shifting surface, using the wall to balance. Outside, I walk unaided. ‘Look, Dad, no hands! Wheeee’. I go into Topshop and buy myself a pair of huge shades, then I pick up a pair of skinny jeans, a long-sleeved fleecy top and a big woolly jumper. There’s a dress on the sale rack with no security tag on it, which is a bit of an oversight, so in it goes, into my bag, stuffed underneath my bundled-up hospital gown. Must chuck that, and pronto. Next, I go into the mobile phone shop, buy one of those pay-as-you-go yokes and boom, I’m a new woman, with a new number and new threads. The shop assistants are looking at me funny, elbowing each other and pouring delighted gossip into each other’s ears. My hair must be like a mad yoke’s. It gets all matted easily, probably has puke in it too.