Actually, it’s the other hospital, the one in North London where I’m having my blood tests, that’s totally doing my head in. It’s taken them nearly a month to get my address right, so they’ve lost my anticoagulant book twice now. I have no record of my results and dosages, although I have kept notes in various places.

If that wasn’t enough, the woman who works at the clinic front desk is, frankly, a patronising cow, who shouldn’t be working in a public-facing job. I was upset for several days after dealing with her on Tuesday, and I’m still considering making a complaint. Blimey, what a little flower I am. But you know what, I’ve had a bloody stroke and I expect to be treated with just a bit of, like, respect – or at least niceness.

But I’ve come to the conclusion that most stroke services are simply not equipped to deal with the needs of younger sufferers – (not going to get into the ‘Victim’ versus ‘Survivor’ thing) – despite the fact that, (according to my neurologist; I hope I’ve remembered right), 25% of people who get them are under 60. They expect all patients to be old, doddery, and incapable of thinking for themselves, and perhaps supported by a band of relatives or social workers ticking forms on their behalf. The nurses talk to you like a child some of the time and it’s baffling.

If I ever get a progressive illness, I dread having to deal with the NHS, I really do. I think I would turn into a crazy shouty person, like the woman I saw while waiting to see the neurologist the other day. I think she was attending the MS clinic, and she had found her notes lying on a table and was reading them. One of the nurses told her off and said it was against protocol to let her do that. ‘I just want to see what’s going on with the treatment for my illness!’ she snarled. I don’t blame her. She was about my age, and was walking with a stick, and didn’t look well at all.

Oh god, enough dread and irritation. Come with me and let’s live in the moment.