Three people stopped speaking to me. I am not going to name them. Two of them were at my wedding.
Eleven people were extraordinary — the sister, Bernadine, who rang me every Sunday for a year; a registrar called Olu who sent me a photograph of every single thank-you card that came into the department with my name on it, for fourteen months, without comment.
And the rest of that building did the thing people do, which is nothing at all, pleasantly, in corridors.
I lost about a stone. I did not drink, which surprised everybody including me, and started running instead, which is more embarrassing.
