I’m enjoying the art. It’s ages since I’ve drawn anything other than pictures of Mervyn Wright naked in the shower, Mervyn Wright naked in the boxing ring, Mervyn Wright naked in a Blackpool boarding house – you get the idea. Now all that seems far, far away, like something viewed down the wrong end of a telescope, distinct but distant. I can’t summon up the feelings I had, that fever of whirling confusion, the heart beating like a drum, the dry mouth and gurgling stomach. If I think of Wright at all, it’s only to wonder if he’s still in the Glasshouse. I don’t have queer feelings about him any more. About anyone at all, in fact, although there are some good-looking lads in the hospital, some of them no doubt here for the same reason as me. But I’m not bothered. They say they’re putting something into the tea to keep us calm. If that’s true, I welcome it. When I leave, I might ask for some to take away.

I don’t know what the AOC at Reville put in my notes, but I have a pretty good idea. My admission interview went along these lines.

Doctor: You know why you’re here, don’t you, Medway?

Me: Yes, sir.

Doctor: Temperamentally unfit for duty. Do you know what that means?

Me: Yes, sir. I’ve been fainting a lot.

Doctor: Why is that, Medway?

Me: I don t know. I was hoping you’d tell me.

Doctor: What do you think, Medway?

Me: I suppose I’ve had some sort of breakdown, sir.

Doctor: And what would bring that on?

Me: I don’t know.

Doctor: Have you been under any particular emotional strain, Medway?

Me: No, sir.

Doctor: No ‘Dear John’ letters or anything of the sort?

Me: No, sir.

Doctor: No particular friendships at the base?

Me: No, sir.

Doctor: I see. (Scribbles a few illegible notes.) Are you interested in the theatre, Medway?

Me: Yes, sir.

Doctor: Dramas, Medway? Or … musicals?

Me: Anything, really …

Doctor: Do you go to the pictures?

Me: Sometimes …

Doctor: Do you like westerns?

Me: Not much …

Doctor: Ah! But you would prefer to see South Pacific.

Me: It’s okay …

Doctor: Have you seen Spartacus, Medway?

Me: Not yet.

Doctor: But you would like to, hmm?

Me: Yes …

Doctor: Or Ben Hur?

Me: Well yes …

Doctor: (Triumphant.) Ah ha! (Scribbles.) So you like gladiator pictures, then.

For the next assessment I was required to sit in a darkened room with electrodes taped to my hands, while images were flashed on a screen in front of me. This reminded me of the Freedom from Infection parade when I first saw Wright, the images of soft chancres and missing noses that always caused someone to faint. I smiled at the memory, like something from childhood.

This time, however, the images were easier on the eye. We started off with Elizabeth Taylor in a swimsuit, then Burt Lancaster in trunks. We had images of cute, gurgling babies, boxers in the ring, Sabrina in a negligee, Tony Curtis in blue jeans, and so on. You don’t have to be Sigmund Freud to work out what they’re getting at. I concentrated on my breathing, and viewed them all with indifference, even when they started to get a little more interesting: Marilyn Monroe with her tits out (so those photographs really did exist after all; I wondered where they’d got them), a physique model in a posing pouch (I recognised the picture from Man’s World; they’d certainly done their homework). I felt nothing, apart from slight nausea, but I feel that nearly all the time anyway.