I had a small operation last night. It had been booked, was not an emergency, and was of the invasive variety.

I took some medication beforehand. I practised meditation. I had a hot bath. I told myself not to worry.

I also told Mr Mechanic not to worry. He still insisted that a two-hundred-mile drive was nothing really, and came up anyway.

We sat there in the waiting room full of couples and single people, running children and the depressing leaflets stuck to the walls of the ugly building from the 50s.

He told me a few jokes. I thought of surgical instruments and white gowns.

When my name was called, I shook my head and sunk into the plastic chair.

'I'll take you, come,' he whispered, holding my hand.

That convinced me very quickly. 'No,' I said. I did not want anybody there.

The female doctor was very understanding. I had had a bad experience before and my body had frozen into a state of induced coma.

We negotiated positions and agreed order of procedure. I looked at her friendly face suspiciously.

'I shall be here too,' chirped the nurse happily.

'Oh great. Now I have to make small talk as someone else pokes me inside as if I were a casserole in need of a stir,' I thought.

I did manage. An hour went by.

'Very brave, Lucrezia,' said the doctor. I saw in her eyes that she meant it.

'Really? I don't think so,' I muttered.

'Well... considering the abuse I get, how often I am shouted at, how much fuss other patients conjure up, and the fact that two months ago I was kicked by one of them in the ribs and was bruised for a week, I think you have done really well.'

It's all relative.

I saw Mr Mechanic waiting there for me, and was glad not to be alone.

Relatively speaking, I was alone in the doctor's room. But not in my life.

Other times, I have been with people in the same room, but have been completely alone.