I smile at Dom’s message. That’s exactly why I’m marrying him. He’s my rock. Always there when I need him, whether I know it or not. The latter is certainly the more common occurrence and sometimes a source of contention due to my independent streak – I prefer to believe I only need myself to get by. But in this case, probably all I need is a set of discharge papers and a lift home. I’m sure if I was dying, they’d have mentioned this. It’s probably just a smudge on the scan that’s made it hard to read or something. I’ve had inconclusive smear tests, which have been fine when they redid them. Reassuring Dom that I’m fine, I wish him a good day at work and tell him I’ll keep him posted on when I’m getting out.

I switch back to the news, but I’m restless and it’s not long before I cast my phone aside in search of something more practically focused. Ignoring the persistent pounding in my head, I power up my iPad and spend some time browsing different sites for wedding shoes. It’s unlikely Sasha and I will manage our planned shopping expedition this weekend, so some early research will help save time when we do eventually go out together. I may be restless but I’m not feeling that sharp. I manage to create a shortlist of shoes for both of us: mine focused around beautiful high-heeled, lace-detailed peep toes, while ‘bit of bling’ strappy silver sandals make up the top choices for Sasha.

While pondering what else on my wedding to-do list I could use this unexpected opportunity to address, I realise I’m actually quite beat. My head injury has clearly knocked me off par, perhaps helped along by the cold I’m developing – though I note that no respiratory symptoms have appeared. Deciding that maybe it’s best to do as the nurse suggested and try to rest for a bit, I lie back and close my eyes.

It feels like ten minutes later when I wake with a start, groggy, a path of drool tracking its way down the side of my chin. I quickly grab a tissue from my bedside cabinet and wipe it away.

‘How do you feel now?’

I look up and see the nurse I spoke to earlier standing at the end of my bed. ‘OK, thanks. Think I manged to sleep for a few minutes.’

‘You’ve been out for three hours.’ The nurse points at the clock above the door on the ward. ‘Will have done you good. I was about to wake you. Dr Harlow has started her rounds.’

‘Oh, right.’ I perk up slightly, hoping that means I’ll be home by late afternoon.

‘Expect she’ll be with you soon…’ The nurse turns away distractedly. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, love, you need to keep your nightgown on.’

She makes a beeline for an elderly patient who is heading for the ward’s main corridor starkers. I watch this scene unfold in front of me, feeling a tinge of sadness that poor Elizabeth is so unwell, she no longer possesses the shackling inhibitions that keep so many of us in check. But I also can’t help chuckling a little as the nurse wrestles Elizabeth back to her bed and quickly pulls the curtain round just as an elderly male patient starts to wolf-whistle from the corridor. The cruel reality of ageing. Having a sense of humour must be an essential quality for the staff on this ward.