Sitting in the cinema with Nurse Jackie last week, I experienced an unsettling moment of empathy with Lionel Shriver’s Eva Khatchadourian and a glimmer of understanding of why she needed to talk about Kevin. I know I am supposed to like my above-knee prosthesis – other people seem to be pretty impressed with it – but I really don’t. Like Kevin, the leg is a glowering, malign presence. I have moments when I think it’s not too bad but then it moves slightly, and puts unbearable pressure on places I’d very much rather it didn’t. I lurch into the disabled loo to try to adjust it and sense it smirking in the corner as, flustered and flailing around, I accidentally pull the emergency cord. I imagine it rolling its eyes as, morning after morning, I’m defeated by the leg-sock-socket-belt-pants-tights- shoes-order-conundrum. Like Eva remembering her childfree days as a travel writer, I’m wistful for a time when I was unencumbered by this new and unwanted entity which slows me down and makes me feel horrible about myself. I tell Nurse J that nothing good will come of him admiring it, but will he listen? …

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