I don’t hear the Squeak coming down the corridor. I turn as she unlocks the door, my eyes glancing at the clock. It’s not medicine time. Then I remember that a social worker is meant to be coming today and am surprised to see that it’s not a social worker; the Squeak has brought Dr. Robinson. She’s not looking me in the eye.

‘Need any more water, Connie?’ the Squeak asks me. As if she cares.

‘Yes please, ice and a slice,’ I say, sounding cheerier than I am feeling. But I am pleased to see Dr. R. The Squeak rolls her eyes at me and brings in a lukewarm jug and swaps it for the empty one on my side table. Why bother. Dr. Robinson is smiling politely at the Squeak; she’s being helpful, holding the door open for her so she can get back to her trolley. I notice that there is a stain on Dr. Robinson’s trousers and her hair isn’t looking quite so glossy. It’s matted a little at the back.

‘Those fumes are pretty strong . . . could we open a window?’ Dr. Robinson says to the Squeak. They’re painting the whole place a happy yellow colour that isn’t fooling anyone. I can’t smell a thing – I’ve got used to it. It’s pretty toxic; Mental Sita’s gone berserk. She somehow got hold of a pot of Sunshine and tried to bury her head in it. She’s good at grabbing life by the balls.

The Squeak isn’t used to anyone important bothering with her but she shuffles into the room and makes a feeble attempt to open the window, knowing full well there is no chance. She says something banal like she’ll ask someone at reception, but she won’t. She’s a lazy cow.

When she leaves the room, Dr. Robinson gives me a curt, brusque smile and comes over to our little table. I feel a bit hurt that we have become such strangers again. She regrets revealing so much to me. She takes her jacket off and I’m intrigued by the fact that her jumper is on both inside out and back to front. (She shops at Agnès B.)