Actually, the last six weeks have been better than I feared. Brighton is a village pretending to be a city, so I keep running into old ambulance colleagues, school friends, neighbours, both on the streets and in the hospital corridors.

I pin the smile on my face as I pass the ambulances in the car park and walk through the automatic doors into A & E. A plume of cigarette smoke wafts towards me and for a fraction of a second, I picture Joel’s father, in this same spot on millennium night, before we knew if his son would live or die.

Forget it. These flashbacks are inevitable, but luckily they happen rarely. One of these days, I’m bound to run into Joel for real and that’ll be harder. I couldn’t even watch his documentary last month, though I did read his piece in The Times about genetic testing. I’m glad his little boy is in the clear. I tried not to spend too long analysing the fact he didn’t mention a partner . . .

‘I made St Patrick’s Day cupcakes,’ I say, plonking the Tupperware box down on the ED counter. ‘The green colouring is ninety-nine per cent natural, though I can’t vouch for the last one per cent.’

The baking skills I honed playing housewife with Tim and Elaine are coming in handy again. Any suspicions my colleagues might have about my shameless attempts to bribe them generally disappear after their first bite.

‘I need these,’ the registrar says, ‘it’s been an insane day and I guess we’ll be getting our share of leprechauns later but it seems qu—’ He stops himself saying the Q word, to avoid jinxing it. ‘We’re still busy but manageable.’

Busy suits me. As he starts the handover, the list of patients and their presentations gives me something solid to latch on to.

‘See you in the morning,’ I say, as the reg trudges back to the locker room.

My first patient tonight is homeless. I can smell him even before I pull the curtain aside. Colleagues with more sensitive dispositions, or noses, rub Vicks inside their nostrils, but I’ve learned to breathe through my mouth.

It’s a her, not a him. She looks more like a pile of rags than a person. Another pile, this time of bags stuffed with belongings, is balanced precariously next to her bed. I see from the notes that she’s not been here long. Under an hour.

‘So, Miss . . .’ I look at my sheet . . . ‘Allsop, I’m Dr Smith. Can you tell me in your own words what the problem is?’

She looks up and I think: I know you. It’s the eyes. They’re clearer and younger than the rest of her. I check the DOB on her records. She’s only thirty-four.

‘I’m dying.’