First day out of ICU and I am introduced to a device that is to be my torturer and mobility saver for the next couple of months. An alloy bar with pad designed to press against the middle of my chest, exactly where my chest has been turned to blue-black mush and is most tender, another bar to do the same at the bottom of my torso, and a strap round the back which must be tightened so that I cannot possibly bend my spine in a forward direction. Necessary, but bloody uncomfortable.

Then I am told how to elevate myself into a sitting position while keeping my legs aligned with my body. Possible, but tiring, and I lie back exhausted, looking forward to the wandering band of nursing nymphets who will pass my way shortly, offering the Thai nursing version of the bed bath; featuring soapy gloves and unnecessary but welcome extra-cleaning around the genital areas. No such luck.

Now we will teach you ze walking, they say, perhaps in a slightly less Germanic twang than I imply. Walking? My back is in agony, I am exhausted and my testicles need a good clean; this is no time for walking. And indeed it isn’t. By the time I manoeuvre myself to the edge of the bed, I am a sweaty aching mess and it is mutually agreed there will be no walking today. But I understand the approach. It would be so easy to lie there all day, wallowing in self-pity while your body gradually loses interest in doing the things it used to do. So they push you; and on the second day I could stand and by the third I could take small steps. Within a week I will performing somersaults, which will be quite a trick as I have never done them before.