It’s two thirty in the afternoon. I’ve just woken up, even though I was barely asleep. I stink of salty sweat. My head is full of soggy cotton wool. The noise in the house is grating on my nerves. I need silence, painkillers, water, oxygen. My whole body feels useless and disgusting and I want to switch it off. And sleep properly and deeply and without dreams about not being able to remember, of not being able to move.
Idris Elba featured in this morning’s nightmare. Even he couldn’t save me.