In the winter of 1994, I stayed with my grandmother for a couple of weeks while my aunt, her full-time carer, was travelling. It wasn’t an imposition. I’d lived with my grandparents until I was eight years old, so to be back in that dim but beloved house was like revisiting my childhood. At the end of each night, in peak grandmother-mode, my gran would send me off to bed with a hand-crocheted blanket and a cup of hot chocolate.
A week or so into my stay, I woke up feeling dreadful. My head was pounding, my gut was roiling and I felt as if I’d barely slept. Although I was in my mid-twenties, this wasn’t a hangover. The highlights of the previous night had been watching Murder, She Wrote and that cup of hot chocolate.
