Outside your office, deflated, I noticed Dr Franco bounding down the hallway. ‘Well, hello, young Constance.’

‘Hey, Dr Franco. Are you all better now?’

‘I am. I am, indeed. Thank you. Lost a couple of pounds in the process too,’ he said, patting his belly. ‘But it’s truly terrible about dear Dr Williams. I was so shocked. You must all be terribly shocked.’

‘Yes . . . yes, we are. It’s very sad.’

His tearfulness was magnified under the convex of his glasses and he rested his hand upon my shoulder. ‘It is indeed.’ He paused, then said, ‘Though, sadly, as life goes on, I must get going. I have a patient.’ And off he went up the stairs.

I liked Dr Franco. Still do. Despite everything he now knows about me.

The hours up until lunch went quickly. We were extra busy due to the patients who’d cancelled the previous day now deciding they wanted to be seen. Apparently, being rich permits such things.

Finally, able to escape, I headed to M&S. Tesco was closer, but I thought I’d get a higher-quality sandwich for you in Marks.

Once there, I grabbed a basket and within seconds had thrown in Alison’s requested tuna sarnie (Linda was on SlimFast) and my egg and tomato. Allowing me time to study the chicken selection.

After much stress, I opted for the last remaining chicken salad sandwich, in a bag rather than a plastic packet, but the lettuce looked decidedly ragged. I asked the acnefied boy filling the crisp stand if there were any more in the back, and after some resistance, he relented, returning with a much perkier one that I was happy to give you.

On the way back, fantasizing about us eating our lunch together in the staffroom, I realized I’d run out of fags, so popped into Mo’s kiosk. While waiting for my change, which took longer than it should, as Mo was, as always, on the phone and running a one-armed operation, my eyes scanned the papers next to me. ‘Austerity Not Over.’ A picture of an elderly woman being evicted from her council house. Then I noticed the date: 26 July.

I’d forgotten.

I’d never forgotten before.

Panicked, I searched for a card. An array of faded drawings with naff proclamations of happy occasions perched in what appeared to have once been a rotating stand. But lack of space and rack rheumatism meant it could barely swing a centimetre side to side. There was only one for a father. An embossed watercolour of a man playing golf. Happy birthday to the best dad in the world. I paid for it, along with a book of four stamps, and mouthed for Mo to lend me a pen so I could write the same words I always did. Happy birthday, Dad. Love, Constance. Beneath, my number and current address. On the envelope, MR PATRICK LITTLE, written in clear block capitals. A stamp.