He protected himself from feeling the pain of her death by creating an imaginary scene of bliss. He could go there in his mind any time he chose. It seemed to him to be a perfect solution. It hurt nobody else, he kept her memory alive and he was happy, particularly when he was drunk, because that helped him even more to live in the world of his choice rather than the world of reality. And that’s been the story of his life for the last eight years: he has lived in pathetic suspended animation. If he is to have a better life than this – he is still in his thirties – he is going to have to face up to his bereavement and come to terms with it. My job is to help him do that – and it won’t be easy.

With a dull thud, the Brown bounce is over. The initial honeymoon period – and therefore the prospects of an early general election – is over. This is no bad thing: I want to see the Welfare State fall apart while Gordon Brown and his socialist colleagues are still in power. Having taken the credit for setting up such a catastrophic system, it is they who need to be around when the inadequacy of the ideas – and therefore the policies that stem from them – finally comes home to roost.

Twenty three patients in one five hour session in my medical practice is quite something – but the art is to be busy without being rushed.

The first time he came to treatment he ran off after a week, taking one of the women patients with him. A month later he returned on the condition that he could bring his own bed. Again he walked out after a few days, returning to his former conquest who was still drinking. Now, a month later again, he wants to come back, provided that he can bring his mynah bird with him. Whatever next?

I don’t get the sense that he has yet understood the concept of powerlessness over addiction. We can see it from outside but he sees his own behaviour as perfectly reasonable and believes that his problems are caused by other people not really understanding him.

She sleeps with his ashes in their urn in her bed.

I find it rather amusing, in a wry sort of way, when people one third of my age and working half my hours complain of being tired from overwork. They completely fail to see that energy is self-generated through enthusiasm.

I leant over the molten chocolate fountain.

The cabbie refused to take Meg and me the half mile from Pelham Street to the cinema in Fulham Road, saying that we could walk. Indeed we can – and we often do walk back home after the film. I wouldn’t have thought that our physical fitness was anything to do with him and it isn’t as if we were taking him into an area where taxi users are infrequent. Perhaps he thought we might be trouble makers. Well, I am – but I didn’t know that it showed quite so obviously.

We see and treat all sorts of people for depression and addictive behaviour of one kind or another. Their personal idiosyncrasies are nothing to do with that, unless they are specifically part of sex and love addiction. If she gets progressive and destructive problems from her inter-personal behaviour, it is our business. If not, it’s just her choice.

I read that taking a nap at lunchtime reduces the risk of coronary artery disease by 35%. I know of no medical intervention that comes remotely close to that. Who needs doctors or tablets when sofas and beds are so effective?