I had no idea water could feel that hard. They told me afterwards I was lucky the bobbies were on hand: I stuck in the mud at the bottom. Three of them (Sam was one) dived in, and together they managed to extricate me and get me to the surface before I had ingested too much of the river. Anyway, I got off lightly as far as physical injuries were concerned: a broken ankle, bruised ribs and a fractured right wrist; I am learning to write with my left hand. I find this very interesting; the left being my ‘un-socialised’ hand means I am more directly in touch with my real self. Yes, I know it sounds a bit airy-fairy but it is true. I find that the stuff I am writing now has a different feel to it.

Diary extract – 22nd November

It’s quiet on the ward. I’m sitting by the window, looking out onto the lawn. It’s raining, and the gardens have that sad kind of beauty that makes you want to cry, and you don’t know why. Well, YOU may not know why, but the doctors do: you’re a depressive. They’ve diagnosed me as depressive – amongst other things. I know that because the staff nurse told me. She’s ok, Greta. A bit on the fat side, and she smokes a lot; but she’s got a lovely face.
I’m going to ask to see my notes. You can do that nowadays; they don’t like it, but you can insist.
Bernie, my observer for this shift, is sitting at the table in the middle of the room. He’s talking to Harry, but keeps glancing over to see if I am about to slit my wrists. Now Harry: he’s an interesting case. Used to be a teacher. Taught maths in a big secondary modern. It got to him – I should say the students got to him. Came to the point where he used to have a miniature of whisky before coming to school, and in the lunchtime he would be down the pub for three or four pints, to get him through the afternoon. In the end he had a breakdown: poured lighter fuel over his jacket and trousers and set fire to himself – in the middle of an algebra lesson.
I never liked maths, myself. Wasn’t any good at it. I thought whilst I was in here, old Harry might give me a couple of lessons: sort of help me and keep his hand in at the same time. But he won’t talk about what he used to do for a living, Can’t blame him really.
Paul has just come in; but I am going to ignore him. He says he’s God. I asked him how he got this idea. Well, it seems he used to pray a lot. Then one day when he was talking to God he realised he was talking to himself. At least that’s what he told me; but, as I said, they’re all mad in here.
– oh, I’ll have to stop now – here comes Freddy’s registrar: Doctor Singh...