She stood behind me for maybe three-quarters of an hour, tapping my upper arms. A tall Scandinavian-type blonde in shades of beige, she informed me it was a relaxation technique.

Oh, well, whatever.

She is my psychologist – yes, all part of the service – and she’d arrived with a Portuguese intern who was brought because he speaks English. One can’t miss the nuances that way.

Lots of people at this stage get release from talking about their emotions and feelings, particularly, I suspect, the repressed French.

I try not to be amused and explain that I have never had a problem unveiling what I’m thinking.

Indeed, I tell them I do it on a weekly basis in a pretty raw way to my poor readers. The Portuguese is studying me, so I articulate all this in French.

We then have a further discussion in English and meanwhile tap, tap, tap goes the Scandinavian.

I smile at her to show it’s working – it’s not, but I like to give encouragement when I can. “What are your feelings?” asked the Portuguese.

Oh, puhlease.

He sounds like a bad journalist. But, for my karma, I take pity on him and explain the obvious.

Then, I had enough. “Look, I’m very fortunate. There’s few holds barred in my life. I speak openly to friends and I speak to my readers and to my many Twitter followers when I’m up to it.

“They give me extraordinary support and love in the absence of friends and family in the flesh.”

I then go into a diatribe about Mac computers, Brexit, Customs and how they’re all buggering me up.

From there it’s a rather existential chat on, yes, guardian angels and miracles.

Poor boy made the mistake of asking if I had beliefs.

Meanwhile, tap, tap, tap.

At the end of it all, he sighs, and says it’s obvious you have a fine brain, and intellectual rationale on what we’re doing and what you’re doing. Do you want to see us again?

Aagh, hell, why not? It breaks up a day even though the puppy eyes of compassion are a touch irritating.

Their aim, I know, is to bring me to an acceptance of what is to come. Not quite ready for that yet but because I want them to know how smart I am, I tell them so and instantly regret it as he scribbles in his pad – probably the words “in denial”.

Damn right, I am.

The tapping stops. Thank God. She basically asks: “How was that for you?”

Well, it would be rude to say meaningless, so I smile and say “Excellent” like Hugh Grant in all his films.

And off they go until next week. Only the Portuguese will return

as she says we have a rapport. Yes, it’s called nuance in a familiar language.

He also,

I have discovered, loves books so we can talk about that after I’ve thrown him a bone on my emotions and feelings – if I have any left to spare.

One thing he did say which has made me pause came when I said I’d love people to come and stay as they’ve offered but I can’t face it.

Why not?

“Look around. It’s a hospital now – bags of medication, wheelchair, Zimmer.

“I’m not me any more sitting under my wig, trapped, unable to drink too much, dance, be the hostess. Preside over an outside table laden with aperos.

“I’m just a poor soul needing care. I don’t want them to see me so diminished and feeble. I’m sick of the compassionate weighing up my timescale.”

But, he points out, you are still you and they will see beyond all this. He waves towards the bags of drugs.

Perhaps I should trust those who can still see me as me. I have been thinking about it ever since and still haven’t come to an answer.

So perhaps the psychologists have fulfilled their purpose after all.

Anyway, a little round-up.

I have given up any thoughts of going to England. It’s too complicated and I couldn’t guarantee care of the standard I’m receiving here, especially while waiting to be admitted to the NHS.

Pierce is coming shortly for at least two weeks.

He’s bringing bacon and sausages and trying to see if there’s any way his favourite restaurant can pack me my Chinese favourites to survive the car journey.

And, glory of glories, my Mac laptop has been released by Customs, and Apple London believe they can repair it without losing my data, unlike Apple France, who wouldn’t even try.

So, all crossed. He’ll bring it with him and not risk Customs hold-ups.

So there’s positive, non? I’m even, dare I say it, cheery.

Hell, maybe the tapping worked.