Last ever visit to Inpatient Hospital. G’s course of treatment is finished. The consultant checks G over for the final time, discusses discharge documentation, hands us on to the senior nurse to arrange for letters to be sent.

The nurse turns sentimentally reminiscent. “Long time you’ve been with us, G – goodness me, over ten years! I remember the first time you came here and met the team.”

“I just remember too many people in the room,” says G.

“There were fourteen of them,” I say. “I counted.”

“Your Mum’s always been the great one for accuracy,” says the nurse, laughing. “I’ll never forget her pulling out your file in that first meeting. Anything we asked, she riffled through that enormous lever arch folder to find an exact answer for everything.” She clatters away on her keyboard for a while, then turns back to G. “That’s you done. I feel a little bit sad – we’ll miss you. Before CoViD, I’d have offered you a goodbye hug, but we are not allowed to do that now.”

G gives her the trademark blank-faced basilisk stare, then says, “Suits me. I’ve never been a huggy person, even before CoViD.”