Much more interesting than the other patients at rehab were the people that worked at the rehab centre.

The person I liked the most was actually a cleaner. She’d come round every day and have a little chat. Mainly about the books I was reading on the toilet, because she’d notice them while she cleaned the bathroom – accrued quite a little library in there. But she was down to earth and totally normal, which is something I could really respect after dealing with the dual freak show of the other patients and bitch nurses.

The main bitch nurse – Jacqui – had such a scowl that even my mates started calling her bitch nurse. The nurses came round every day to ask me if I’d taken a shit. “Have you opened your bowels today?” was the way they prompted. Sometimes they’d ask if I’d taken a shower. The day that Jacqui came round to ask me just that, I hadn’t (it was early) – so told her I’d do it.

When she left, I got in the bathroom, locked the door, stripped off and got in. Was showering away behind the shower curtain, as you do, when I heard the door slide open. Even though it’s locked, there’s a knob that can be turned to unlock it on the other side if you’re determined. Seems Jacqui was.

“How are you going in there?” she asked of my naked self. “Fine,” I curtly replied.

She then slid the shower curtain wide open. I was naked, and facing right at her. “Do you need any help?” she asked. Not in a sexual this-could-turn-into-a-porno way, but in a way that would almost sound like pity if she wasn’t copping a good look at Mr Josh.

“No,” I shot back, turning around – coz, you know, looking at my ass is much less offensive than looking at my meat and veggies. But what can you do.

The coolest nurse I had was this big black nurse called Mary. She had a thick accent. Would love to pinpoint it and tell you where her accent was from, but I don’t know if I’m being racist when I say it sounded Jamaican. Racist because she was black and had an accent, so she must be Jamaican.

I’d just moved to a new, non-brain injury ward, so she was sorting out my room and making some small chit-chat.

“What happened to you?” she asked. I told her I was hit by a car, and from on-scene reports I was thrown 10 metres.

“And what dew you dew?” she asked. I write, I told her.

“You should write a book here about your accident!” she excitedly told me. “You could call it: ten metahs in de air and still a-live.”

I hope Mary has somehow found this blog, because I’ve been on fire lately and she would be totally proud.