Being Sectioned isn’t funny. I went with my mother the day they came for Uncle Simon. He’s her brother-in-law, so it was a bit unfair that she had to lie on the floor with him because he was scared that somebody might see him through the window.

My father and David had gone down to Gloucester Docks to sail a model of the Bismark, so they missed all the fun.

It was a Saturday afternoon and we got a call from one of Simon’s neighbours - they could hear him shouting. It wasn’t the first time. We had a key and let ourselves in. The house smelt like he’d been away with some particularly unhygienic fairies. Several times during the afternoon we spoke with the doctor and to the police. They weren’t bothered because he wasn’t a danger to anybody.

At 6pm my grandmother arrived, made one phone call, and within forty minutes we had his GP, a psychiatrist and a very pleasant social worker sitting in the living room drinking tea (which I’d made for them), and eating cake.

The only thing that spoilt this idyllic English Saturday afternoon was Simon. He was alternating between staring at people, and explaining how everybody was going to go off “to Europe” and only he would be left behind.

The psychiatrist suggested that he was probably better off in his own home. “Don’t be silly,” my grandmother said. The psychiatrist realised that he was beaten and called an ambulance.

Even if it was a sad afternoon, it was better than being at the Docks with Dad and David.