In which Princess Diana’s New Romantic wedding dress,
“Ghost Town” by the Specials
and getting sunburnt on a beach in South Devon loom large.
In which there is a big misunderstanding
and the days darken very darkly into autumn
and there is an evening when rage collides with hopelessness.
In which the hospital glares white.
In which there are cubicles with mauve plastic curtains.
In which there are drips and bleeps.
The face of my half-Greek friend in the clinic is beatific
but I won’t mention her by name because even now she might be embarrassed
if she’s not dead.
In which a psychiatrist offers cosy platitudes.
In which I think he’s an idiot.
In which I don’t change my mind about that.