s**t. s**t. s**t. I am late. Somehow everything went pear-shaped this morning, starting with sleeping through my alarm, and now I am ten minutes late for my appointment with Dr Grohl. The receptionist waves me straight through when I come jogging in, and I find myself collapsing into my favourite squishy armchair whilst simultaneously trying to apologise for my tardiness and catch my breath.
David hands me a glass of water and gives me a couple of minutes to collect myself before announcing that we ought to start the session. I feel so embarrassed about being late that I am particularly grouchy today. When David starts probing me about my freak-out in the bath—typical, Taylor must have called him—I find myself shutting down, unable to answer his questions as the images flood back. I don’t
