I have always felt at home in hospitals. As a small child, my mother - a psychiatric nurse - would take me to work with her on Wednesdays, to collect her wages. Back then your wage was weekly, and came in an envelope full of actual money, rather than direct into a bank.

Often she would leave me on my own in the hospital canteen, where a range of old or mentally ill people would cop over me and make sure I was fine. I think explains a lot about why I am comfortable around the old, the infirm, the unusual.

Even now the smell of hospitals brings back those childhood memories. Even after years of spending time visiting first dad, then mum, then Kim’s parents, a hospital feels like part of home. Somewhere safe.