I wasn’t feeling too ticketyboo this morning. I’d not been able to sleep (always makes me crabby, which is why I am crabby all the fucking time), and my head is really not all it should be with the new medications. When I was a student going to hard rock gigs, I’d have welcomed them. Now, not so much.

Anyway, I was lolling about feeling quite sorry for myself, and there was a very very gentle rapping on the door. I lurched to my feet, opened up. It was the owner of the little guesthouse I’ve bunkered down in the past few months to be near the hospital.

‘Are you all right? I’ve been worried about you. We all have. We do worry about you, all of us. You’re not just a customer. We actually care about you.’

‘I’ve had better weeks, yes. They’ve changed my meds, so I’m not being sick all the time, which is good, but they do space me out a bit.’

‘I was worried. You’re normally so good at returning emails.’

‘Like I say, my head isn’t doing what it should be doing in an ideal world.. I’m sorry, I know I owe you some money…’

‘The money is not important. I know you won’t cheat. You never have. What is important is you. Is there anything you need? Anything? Food, whatever? Need to get somewhere? Just ask. I can get things for you, do things to help you, all you have to do is ask. And don’t worry about the money. We’ll sort it out.’

Now just how charming is this man and his staff? My fucking face is falling off, I itch all over my head, my eyebrows are falling out, my ears are desquamating, and here he is telling me not to worry about money till I feel better. He’s even given me an extra week in the room to allow me to get some more recovery time in.

My faith in the human race is much extended by this man.