My Last Day In Hospital (well, one of them)

It's Sunday and I'm eagerly waiting for Keanu Reeves to turn up and take me away from all this, for a while at least. A brief reprieve. Where am I? Why do I need such a fine champion (complete with a snow white horse)? Two perfectly good questions - deserving two perfectly good answers. I'll apologise in advance as there's nothing good or perfect in the following pages - just me, spouting verbally.

Right, first things first. Cut to our heroine - that's me, in case you wondered - a fine figure of a 22 year old woman with far more 'child' in her than transactional analysis ever suggested. Radiohead accompanying her self piteous sorrow, making an inspirational duet (probably the driving force being Lemmings. Anyone got a cliff handy?).

That's me - more scarred and torn than Natalie Imbruglia ever dared sing about - sitting on an unmade bed surrounded by curtains, allowing me some privacy from the three other occupants of this dorm. When you're in a 'nut house' you're grateful of all the dignity you can scrape.

This almost feels like a second home, but without the warm and fuzzy feelings that a happy home evokes. Home, not in the usual sense of the word. It's just that this building has seen so much of me in the past two years. It has stood still, remained constant irrespective of my own state of mind (the rollercoaster that is me).

Rachel Waddingham © 2002