While we were out, my sister S invited an entire year group of art students to our Edinburgh flat. She had captured them on the promise of a workshop on the interpretation of lived experience of mental illness in creative outputs. In practice, they came to party.
Now they were bedding down in our spare bedroom and the study – but TPR and I were having none of this. We demanded that they leave immediately. And no, they could not use our en suite bathroom – not even the pathetic-looking girl in a tracksuit who was already floating in our bath.
As well as the mess created by an excess of students in such a small space, we discovered that their use of the bathroom had blocked our drains, so now the entire kitchen was flooded.
This was all too much for me. I had to get away, so I caught a train to Hexham (accidentally without paying), walked through the cobbled streets (looking out for KA, but she was nowhere to be seen), and headed to the beach. It was a beautiful day of blue skies and sunshine, and the view of the bay looked like a scene form the Caribbean.
The tide was in. Since I couldn’t get down to the shore, I clambered along the rocky foreshore instead.
Then disaster struck! I slipped on a rock and slid into the water. I found the bottom with my feet and managed to pull myself out again, but then slipped a second time and became fully immersed in deeper water. The good news was that I could float. However, my recent brush with COVID19 meant that I had no energy to swim, nor could I call out for help. This was the end. Everything went black. I would surely drown.