I don’t blame you for what happened, I just want you to know that. I’m seeing my psychiatrist today. Antonio insisted, and I guess he’s right. Looks like I’m going to need meds. I have to play on Saturday night and there’s a livestreamed charity concert on Tuesday. Desperate times, desperate measures, I guess. I’ll be in touch when things calm down.

This has really not been my week. A part of me wants to get hold of Mel and talk more with her, tell her about the Creeper dream that I just had. But she clearly can’t afford to mess around; her career is at stake. Maybe the meds will help.

I don’t really believe that, but what choice do I have?

I find myself yawning. Stupid stress-induced narcolepsy. OK. Coping strategies. I’ve got to focus on what I’ve got to do today: take O to see Daphne. This should be good fun, actually. Compared to murder and mayhem in dreamspace, anyway.

* * *

O’s hog is a thing of beauty. It has a sidecar and she can control everything with her hands. I’m always a bit nervous driving with her because she thinks she’s still got the reflexes of a twenty-year-old, but I daren’t say anything. Today is one of those misty, still days where everything feels muffled. As we set off through the streets, the motor growls pleasurably beneath my backside, and with the vibrations jiggling my nether bits I try not to think of Antonio, but it’s difficult. Rather Antonio’s hardware than exploding babies, surely. We swing through Shepherd’s Bush and out to the M4.

Normally we do this on a Tuesday fortnight: drive down to Dorking, pick up Daphne at her memory-care residence and take her out to lunch. Unlike O, Daphne is strong as an ox; unfortunately, she almost never remembers who we are. Every time we go to the same gastropub – they know us there and we always leave a big tip to make up for Daphne’s strange dietary requests and occasional physical outbursts. It’s all like clockwork, yet every time Daphne makes up a different story. She knows that she knows us but can’t recall where from, so she finds a way to explain to herself who we are and why we’re taking her out. She may be memory-impaired but her compensatory mechanisms are very creative. One time we were mechanics from the F1 circuit seeking technical advice on tyre traction. Once we were animal-rights activists who wanted to confiscate her furs even though ‘they’re fake, I swear on my life!’ Once we were a May-December couple who needed a witness at our wedding. Last week we were ordinary tax collectors. She did get a bit stroppy with us last week, but on the whole I find Daphne lovely company and it’s never a chore to visit her.