‘Connie,’ she says. She looks awkward, which given the nature of the session is fair enough. ‘I’ve let you down and I’m so sorry. I’m going to talk to my supervisor.’

‘No,’ I say quite firmly, alarmed at the prospect. ‘Don’t talk to anyone. I’m not going to.’

She looks surprised. I think I see something like gratitude in her eyes. And a little fear. I frighten people now. I frighten myself. I feel so alone.

‘All I ask is that you bring my mother to see me . . . please.’ As I’ve said before, I’m an opportunist.

‘I really don’t think I can do that,’ she says.

‘You can. Just drop by – there’s no point in making plans. If she’s not at her house she’ll be at mine. Just go and get her. Say you’re there to pick up a nightie or something for me.’

She doesn’t want to do this. Her eyes flit across the floor; she’s remembering the vomit. ‘I can’t promise anything.’ But she’s thinking about it.

‘I tried on your shoes, too,’ I say.

She is quiet for a moment. She is looking at her shoes, perhaps wondering whether they feel different since being inhabited by a madwoman. I like her, I really do. She is vulnerable like me. I don’t want her to go, I don’t want her to leave me on my own.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I say, because it occurs to me that she really might know the answer. She looks up at me and gives a small nod.

‘How does everyone else . . . function?’ I say.

She frowns and cocks her head, listening for that familiar wolf.

‘Why aren’t the streets full of wrecked people?’ I ask. And I see something like recognition in her eyes. We stand there in a silence that only loonies, lovers and psychotherapists are comfortable with.

She shakes her head a little; she doesn’t know. She is so sad; I think she’s as sad as I am. Then, and I have no idea why then, because it seems indulgent and inappropriate, I start to cry. I cannot remember the last time I cried, but whenever it was I don’t think it sounded like this: a ship’s foghorn. And it feels so strange to be feeling something (and preventing a crisis at sea) that I feel almost triumphant in my unhappiness.

‘It’s all right,’ I hear her say. And I don’t know if I’m imagining it because she’s not meant to touch me (or vomit in my toilet) but I feel her hand on my shoulder and it makes me foghorn again. I miss human contact so much. I miss my kids. I miss my mum.