Thursday.  My Indian GP sees me.  Gives advice about my moods.  Nods.  Is sympathetic.  Writes my prescription. Warns me to be alert and careful, if I am weaning myself off the medicine.

Friday. I crack a lame joke with the black girl in the chemist.  Half-asleep, I apologise for mumbling;  mutter something about it being Friday.  Realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken today.  I pay, pick up the tablets, walk off.

It’s a beautiful morning;  cold, azure, crisp; real.  The kind of morning when you remember why it’s worth being alive.  The kind of morning when the traffic shuts up, and you hear the thrushes.  The kind of morning when you realise you can do anything.  Cumulus start to bubble up over London.  You feel like you can fly through the clouds.

A thunderhead eclipses the sun.  Six foot tall, fifteen stone;  broad and handsome.  Close cropped hair.  Black boots, black shades.  Tight, sleek, black jeans.  George Cross embroidered over his heart.  ******* stitched to the arm of his black NF jacket.  Walking with the confidence of a man who knows he is Chosen.  

I stumble.  

*the thrushes fall silently out of the sky