My daughter finally got me to hospital.
She had rushed up from London to Sale to be met by her father, a quivering wreck, and a gaggle of police hovering around me in the kitchen.
They were ever watchful after my bungled suicide attempt. I was curled up in the corner. Hardly able to speak.
We’d already waited two
hours for an ambulance, but one had still not been mobilised, my daughter was told. And the police were, understandably, losing patience with their unscripted role as mental health nurses.
