I feel I’ve become a character – a time traveler no less – in a badly written, low-brow sci-fi novel; the kind you find multiple copies of in plastic boxes stacked outside secondhand bookshops. I just have to close my eyes and let my head tip backwards and suddenly there I go, swooshing through an echoing portal to some multi-coloured, quivering, crazy parallel universe. My finely tuned super senses can still pick up the sound of the ward phone ringing, doors slamming and trolley wheels on linoleum but I’m no longer constrained by gravity or good sense. I’m off on my travels and no one can catch me. All it takes is a shake of the head, sometimes two if I’m visiting a particularly interesting place, and I’m back on my bed. Mysteriously, the clock’s minute-hand has barely moved. ‘Are you sure I’m on the correct dose of morphine?’ I ask a passing nurse. She rolls her eyes. ‘Quite sure,’ she says.