I was a package tourist about to set out on a journey courtesy of the NHS. In exchange for my loss of independence, everything would be arranged for me. The service wouldn’t be individually tailored, but it would be economic, convenient and, all being well, trustworthy. However, unlike a holidaymaker, I was only going a few miles down the road, and I was packing my bag in the expectation not of sun and sand but of pain and weakness. I didn’t need to pack any daytime clothes, just pyjamas and toiletries, stuff that I associated with early morning and late night, and with the comparatively solitary, dreamy me, not the me of everyday reality.