There aren’t too many reasons why I would ever be looking forward to my weekly assessment. I’ve sat through half a dozen of the bloody things already and the chat never changes much and the outcome’s always the same. Basically, I shouldn’t start packing just yet. That Friday though, after the conversations I’d been having over the previous couple of days, I was moderately excited by the prospect of sitting in a room with several people who could at least string a sentence together, none of whom was as mad as a box of frogs.

Whom. Listen to me.

All I’m saying, sometimes you miss just talking.

It was the usual suspects gathered in the MDR, though they’d moved aside the big desk that was used for staff meetings and tribunals. Or police interviews. Assessments were a bit more informal, a chat as much as anything, so that meant the tried-and-trusted circle of chairs, so beloved of junkies, alcoholics and other group therapy lovers everywhere.

Of people who need to share.

As always, once I’d sat down, they wasted a few minutes by formally introducing themselves for the record. There’s a camera mounted up in the corner, of course – it’s not one Graham’s been able to get at yet, far as I know – so I’m guessing the sessions are actually filmed. Maybe, when I finally get out, they’ll send me away with a copy of my greatest freak-out moments as a souvenir, like leaving Chessington World of Adventures with a picture of yourself screaming on a roller-coaster. A memory of a happy time you can treasure for ever. Anyway . . . Bakshi was present and correct, obviously, and Marcus and Debbie, and a trainee psychiatrist who said her name was Sasha, then didn’t speak again for the rest of the time I was in there. As always, I’d been told that I could have a friend or family member with me, but I decided against it. Aside from the fact that Mum and Dad were coming to visit later that day anyway, the last time they’d been there for an assessment, it hadn’t gone well.

I’d told Marcus that I didn’t need any help fucking things up.

When the staff had finished saying their names and telling people who already knew what they did . . . what they did . . . Bakshi looked at me expectantly.

‘Oh, I’m Alice,’ I said. ‘I’m the basket case.’

Nobody who knew me reacted at all, but I did get a smile from Sasha.

Marcus kicked things off by running through the current dosages of the assorted medications I was on and confirming that said medications had been taken and appeared to be effective.

‘That’s all very good,’ Bakshi said. She wrote something down then looked at me across the top of some rather snazzy glasses. ‘So, how are you feeling, Alice?’