A ‘three’ is a treatment order that means they can keep you for up to six months, because they think you’re a risk to yourself or others, so you won’t be very surprised to hear I got another tribunal application in before you could say ‘anti-psychotic’. Trust me, I was knocking on the door of the nurses’ office before they’d finished the admission paperwork.

Whatever else happens in here, you should never forget you have rights.

My mum and dad wanted to come down for this one, to support me, they said, but I knocked that idea on the head straight away because they’d made no secret of the fact they thought this was where I should be. That it was all for the best. To be honest, apart from the solicitor – who I’d spoken to for all of ten minutes – I didn’t really have anyone fighting my corner, but you certainly don’t want your own nearest and dearest agreeing with the people who are trying to keep you locked up.

I might not be well, I’ll grant you that, but I’m not mental.

So, it was the usual suspects: a table and two rows of plastic chairs in the MDR (Multi-Discipline Room) at the end of the main corridor.

Marcus the ward manager and one of the other nurses.

Dr Bakshi, the consultant psych, and one of her juniors, whose name I forgot straight away.

A so-called lay person – a middle-aged bloke who smiled a lot, but was probably just some busybody with nothing better to do – and a judge who looked like she’d sucked a lemon or had the rough end of a pineapple shoved up her arse. Or both.

Me and my solicitor, Simon.

To begin with, I thought it was going pretty well. There was a lot of positive-looking nodding when I made my statement, at any rate. I told them I’d been there six weeks already, which was longer than anyone else except Lauren. Actually, I think Ilias might have been there a bit longer than me . . . I’ve got a vague memory of him being around the night I was admitted, but those first few days are a bit of a blur.

It doesn’t matter . . .

I told them I thought I was doing well, that the meds were really working and that I wasn’t thinking any of the ridiculous things I’d been thinking when I first arrived. I told them I felt like I was me again. Marcus and the other nurse said that was very encouraging to hear and told the judge I was responding well to treatment. That sounded good at the time, but looking back of course, what it really meant was: so more treatment is definitely a good idea.

You live and learn, right?