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Some nights, my bed was in the corner of a room that was being used for a party. They’d opened an Indian restaurant on the ward. There were vast buffets of curry spread out, people came and went, laughing. My bed kept being moved. Every day I was in a different room and strived to orientate myself. One night I had a bird’s-eye view overlooking a city, which lay across the curve of a bay. In the dark the lights of the city were twinkling, reflecting across the water. Another night, workmen, wearing high-vis jackets, were digging up the floor around me. Then my bed split in two across the middle and I was sliding down into the gap, suspended over dark, deep water, and I kept crying out to the nurses to tell them I was going to drown, but they didn’t understand. One nurse was lying on the floor behind my bed snogging a workman. Another night, I was kidnapped – strangers used a fork-lift truck to take me, on my bed, out the back of the ward and stow me in a horsebox. They wanted me to go back to the cross-country course and testify that my accident was not their fault.

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