All of them have been equally and spectacularly unhelpful, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry I’m so cynical at such a young age. I’m bloody sorry I even know the meaning of the word cynical, but there it is. I ams what I ams.

I know Lou can’t help who she is any more than I can help being me, though, and no amount of talking to someone is going to change that. It just sometimes feels like a valve needs bleeding or something; like central heating. If Sigmund Freud were still around he’d probably say I’m projecting, but I’d tell him you try living with Lou, mate. You try living with someone who once told you that the only reason she’s still here is because of you, and couldn’t even make it sound like a compliment.

A few years ago (on the advice of a real doctor, not just me), Lou started seeing a psychologist called Greta. Her office, which was also her house, became our regular Thursday meet-up spot. When I finished school, I’d walk the ten minutes to Greta’s place, let myself in the side gate and wait outside her door just to make sure it really was my mother in there and not some other random donkey on the edge. I’d stand there watching the ants crawl over my trainers and waiting to catch a snippet of Lou’s voice. Sometimes it was just a whisper in response to something Greta said, and others it was broken and muffled, like she was crying, but unmistakably her. On the odd day it was quiet for so long I’d get sick of waiting, and just have to trust my luck and knock anyhow.

Greta would appear at the door in seconds and usher me through. ‘Hi, Wolfie, come on in.’ She’d hand me a battered iPod Mini and earphones, a pile of old Psychologies magazines and sometimes the end of a packet of biscuits. Then I’d kick my shoes off, squish up on the beanbag in the corner and wait out the session.

I liked Greta, even though the fact that she worked from her house made me wonder a bit about her credentials. I used her loo once and someone had written I’m not quite crazy but I’m dangerously close in red felt tip on the wall. There wasn’t any way of telling whether it was related to the personal or professional part of her life, and Greta didn’t know we only chose her because she was the closest psychologist to my school.

‘Strategy, Wolfie,’ Lou said. ‘Two birds, one stone.’ She doesn’t have a strategy for life, but she has one for therapy.

I got pretty good at tapping my foot to a very low-volume beat, pretending I wasn’t listening to every word Greta was saying to my mother and trying to glean something medical. I learned a lot. I’d mouth along to the whispering Bieber or Britney or a bunch of others Greta obviously thought every twelve-year-old would want to listen to. Sometimes I’d even let out a hum for good measure and strategy. All the while I was storing away words like trauma and cognitive and dysphoria that might be of use at a later stage.