Hospital visiting in central London has been a blast of memories, unwanted and surprising, as it has been a long time since I was regularly passing through Farringdon and was working in offices on the doorstep of Bart’s, the ancient and modern hospital where my husband received his lifesaving surgery. And I say that without an attempt at softening the trauma of the last couple of weeks, as I’ve heard some things you’d never hope to hear about your nearest and dearest.

We spent an hour in Postman’s Park just waiting for the visit to happen or was it a church garden earlier? I am blurring the longest days into shorter parcels. We walked round by the Barbican looking for shops we would have found by St Paul’s, but everything’s newer since my working days when I freelanced at an educational institution as revered as Barts hospital.

Postman’s park contains memorials to the remarkable people who have done astonishing things, which have saved people’s lives in the city, too many to mention in fact, so if you want to get your faith in humanity back it’s a good place to visit, though the secure bars over the koi pond make you realise the underworld nasties still exist.

Another visit today and I am hoping my hospital phobia will start minimising with repetition. I must not detract the dutiful nurses from their patients by fainting or sitting on the floor when it gets a bit much… Did I do that? Such an idiot!