I suddenly feel compelled to check my bank statement online. My revision is going that well. The fact that I haven't left the house for four days seems irrelevant. Two transactions catch my eye. It's the country of origin that screams out at me --MEXICO. As I have been on a "GI Joe," "no fear," "kamakazee" study routine, my brain takes a while to focus. I spend five minutes pondering if I did actually order £200 of goods from Mexico in the past two days. After satisfying myself that this was not the case, I cancel my cards.

Some friends let me know that they will be in town when I arrive at my first elective destination. My mind tells me to check my tickets. Date of departure reads a month out of date. After finding it pretty difficult to actually kick myself, I ring the travel agent. In a "there's one born every minute" type voice she tells me that there's nothing they can do. I try to reason with her calmly, but find it difficult to avoid the words "down the toilet" and "hundreds" of pounds slipping into every sentence. She reciprocates by inadvertantly throwing in the words "careless" and "late" into her standard responses.

Decide to phone the airline direct. Within five minutes I have been booked on a new flight, I've chosen my seats, and I have a personal extension to ring should I have any further queries. I glance at the endometriosis chapter and try to remember when I must have slipped into delirium. The £80 charge is enough to convince me that unfortunately I was not just having a bad dream.