Aware time was racing, I hurried back to work via the postbox.

A postman was filling a sack with all the mail. I hovered next to him.

‘Shall I take that, darlin’?’

I hesitated, placed the card in his hand, then swiftly continued down the road.

‘Hello . . . Excuse me, love,’ I could hear him shout. ‘Miss.’

I didn’t stop. But neither did he. ‘Woohoo, miss.’ He whistled. So shrill that I had no choice but to turn.

‘You’ve forgotten to write the address on it, my darlin’,’ he shouted.

I ran back to him. Smiling, rolling my eyes. ‘I’m such an idiot,’ I said, as I took it back. He handed me a pen he’d removed from behind his ear. ‘Oh . . . thank you, but I haven’t even come out with the address.’

We laughed. I thanked him. I continued down Kensington Church Street. Turned off onto the High Street, where there was another postbox.

I dropped in the card.

The air was still clammy, though smatterings of rain offered some comfort. The grey sky merged with buildings. Rain came properly then. Heavy. Umbrellas went up around me like mass flowers in bloom. People ran or stayed still under shop canopies. But I stopped. Stood in the middle of the pavement, raised my head, closed my eyes. It felt good. Well, better. Like it was washing things away. And only I would ever have known it wasn’t just rain that poured down my face.

I remained there for a few seconds. I think. I don’t really know. When I returned to the world, I was so soaked that I pushed back my hair, flat to my head and down my neck like I did in the shower, and ran. Ran like everyone else.

Back at the surgery, my wet blouse was paper-thin, see-through. I stood in reception in what looked like only my bra. Linda was eager to get me out the back. Away from the view of patients, who were somehow all immaculate and dry.

‘But I need to give Dr Stevens his lunch.’

‘Dr Stevens has gone out on house calls. He won’t be coming back today.’

I dried myself in the loo and put on a jumper that a patient had left behind yonks ago. Then I ate my sandwich in the staffroom with Alison, not you. She relayed, word for word, the previous night’s episode of Emmerdale and complained that I’d actually picked up salmon instead of tuna.

After counting down the minutes to home time, when it was nearly five, Dr Harris asked if I’d stay on and do some overtime, to sort through Dr Williams’s paperwork. Reluctantly, I agreed.