Soup, I’ve decided, is safe. You don’t have to bite into it and if you keep your eyes on the bowl you won’t notice the level go down. I keep at it. This is the amended plan and I follow it religiously – I have come to believe that if I follow some arbitrary rules then salvation will follow. Though I am not sure what salvation entails, and I make up my own rules: I wake up each morning at 6:30 a.m., eat five spoonfuls of sugar and go to work.

In this dream we’re holidaying somewhere exotic. There is soft, percussive music playing from beyond our open window. I am lying on the peach coverlet and you are holding my feet in your hands. You’re trailing fluttering kisses along the sharp bone, where it juts out at the ankle. ‘My baby my baby my baby my kitten my precious pearl my little baby girl,’ you say. ‘Mmmmmh,’ you lick the length of my sole, staring right into my eyes. Your pupils are tiny in their white orbs. Your tongue is very cold. ‘I love to eat baby girl’s feet, baby girl’s feet.’

One of Mrs O’Toole’s granddaughters comes in to introduce her little girl to her great-grandmother. There is no chance that Mrs O’Toole or the baby will retain any memory of the encounter beyond this afternoon. The granddaughter will, though, and this is the point of the visit. Mrs O’Toole’s arms get tired. She asks me if I can hold the baby for her and I sit very still, like I’m made of glass, and the baby is a live baby in a glass cradle that could shatter at any minute. When the mother gets back she picks the baby up from my arms. ‘Don’t want you to be late on your rounds,’ she says. She smiles. Through the glazed bedroom window, I see her checking the baby thoroughly, tilting her backwards and forwards, as though inspecting a bicycle for scuffs or scratches. Well, you kids behave, off I go, back to my rounds.