And then it shattered - the cacophony. The silence, pregnant - what next? Nothing. A quarter to. Thirty seconds, sixty, five minutes, ten. Stillness. Deathly quiet. Fifteen. A shrill cuckoo cracked the air, marking the hour. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

A rustle, a movement. Another. A crow caws far off. A strange sense of normal creeps into being. A bus, a swish of a bicycle and a tentative car horn. A light of match, fizz of tobacco and a breath in. The curtain moves in the breeze, softly letting in a triangle of light, briefly exposing the night’s detritus.

Again. And I promised. Take the pills. I didn’t. Just one more. But it’s the dreams - exciting, thrilling - terrifying.

Okay now, I am awake, I can do. Get on, sort these trials out. Friends, support, professionals. Get to the meeting at nine. I have an hour, and today the shower is working, and yesterday the launderette and Savers, I can present myself.

Shaved, my affected hat, my Poet’s jacket and my linen troos. Thin blue scarf and my £250 Italian shoes. Mirror. More jaunty angle on the hat. Smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. Never mind. Key, check locked, today’s number is 129. Handle up and down. Walk.

“Mummy!” A child’s voice. The cacophony is again all around me, familiar, like a faithful friend. Stumble. “You alright, love?” her green eyes - Julia. Again, Dark Julia. Foreboding clouds, the streetlight looking down on me. Beep, beep, beep. “Hello, ambulance, please.” Blue lights reflecting from every shiny surface. Chatter, normal, all in a day's work, pings, badges, yellow, blue, bumping. Siren synchronising with the maelstrom. Plastic chair, tea (too sweet), blanket. Other people. Hours. “Have you been taking the medication I have prescribed for you the last time we met?”

No.