Here we are. Broken glass on the tarmac. Red faced fella at the side of the road. A light blue Astra with one door open, diagonally up the kerb. Levine sees me and holds up a hand. His posture says, ‘I’ve got this thing locked down, you just stand way over there.’

La-di-dah. The beat goes on.

The ABC. The body. The beat. All firsts.

I wonder if anyone has ever fallen asleep while directing traffic. Could be another first for me this week.

I check my watch and see there’s an hour until my week ends. Nearly time to head back to the station locker room, change, clock off. Maybe a drink with the team if I’m unlucky.

Levine signals me to allow traffic around the car from my side, while he holds vehicles at a stand at his end for a while.

I signal. I smile courteously at the drivers as I do so. La-di-da.

I see many faces I recognise.

Amit from the paper shop down the road. Zoe Hughes from Maths drives past, averting her eyes to ignore my existence. She didn’t always.

I glance to the cluster of shifty kids on the other side of the road to make sure they see traffic is being held and let through at intervals. I’m only looking out for them, but they take one covert glance at me, put up their hoods and scarper off, one holding something weighty in a black plastic bag that’s got them pretty excited.

I probably should be curious about what it is, but that’s not really very me.

‘Dee. Dah dah dah dee dah, dah dah, dah dee…’

I stop the flow. I can barely see the driver in front of me through his tinted windscreen. But I squint to get a look at him in there and see his outline change. He taps the wheel, jittery, maybe coked up, which would account for the nerves. But I’m not going to create any extra trouble for myself. He glares at me, stiller now, as I hold my ground, letting him know I know there’s something up.

Then I wave him through. He shoots away hastily, as I snigger, enjoying my power to intimidate. Then I move to the side of the road, making sure I’m still visible to passing traffic.

Blue car. Red car. White car. Mini. Bus… Bus…

Oh!

I feel tired. Not just tired, faint. I shake my head. Somewhere I hear the bus stop but I don’t see anything. It’s darker now, all around me. I feel sick. I’m fighting to keep my eyes open. I try to go to ground, layer by layer, as a tower block might be detonated or dismantled.

I feel like I’m going to vomit but I don’t want to in front of all these people. It’s a shame-based reflex. I try to hold it in. I try to hold it together. There are shouts behind me.

The sound of footsteps. Running. I just need to reach the floor and everything will be okay. But my ears are going crazy horse. A high-pitched squeamish noise. A fresh white blah blah blah. Like TV failure.

Nearly at the ground now. It all flashes. I swallow ocean breaths. I wonder whether I’m causing scenes. My hands reach for the tarmac black. That high pitched squeal blazes on.

The world looks like it’s under a slow strobe.

Then my back is against the kerb. Clouds forming, crowd forming. I know something is wrong for sure.

I pull out my phone and try and call the… or should I use my… what’s the number for the 999…

I stare at the phone. Not fainting yet. Holding on.

Its numbers are strange. Just lines. Like Greek, or Latin. Symbols I don’t understand. I comprehend nothing.

My head is wet with something. But I don’t know what. I see Levine running up to me. I’m not sure whose blood this is.

I shout to him to check everything is all right.

‘Take the hard road up.’

I don’t know why that comes out. It’s not what I intended.

I try again. As I crawl towards him, off the pavement and onto the road.

‘Perhaps the hard road’s impossible!’ I shout as I crawl and my hand drags past more wet.

‘Take the hard road up. Anything is possible!’ I shout.

It doesn’t feel like my voice. He’s nearly with me. I see the bus has emptied and its passengers are looking at it. And me.

It’s slow motion. It’s hard tarmac broken glass music video inner city incident news commercial heartache.

That high-pitched squeal sings on and on.

A song from a passing car radio strikes up.

‘We lived in this crooked old house

some cops came over to check it out

left on the step was a little baby boy

In a soft red quilt, with a rattle and a toy.’

My hands shake beneath me like an engine does before it stalls. A guy with a busted tooth shouts something.

Before my head falls, I notice the bus has two broken windows. One on each side.

They’re all on their phones. It’s a picture that blurs.

My ears still work though. Listening to the radio song.

‘You’re my little one

Say I didn’t love in vain

Please quit crying honey

Cos it sounds like a hurricane’

I wonder how those windows got broken.

That’s my last thought for now. Before I go.

It’s just one of those things.

Some days you meet the person you were always meant to be with.

Some days you get shot in the head.

‘‘Can’t get that, dah dee dah, dah dah, my head…’

‘Good. You’re awake. Looking good,’ says the voice.

Male. Warm. My thoughts run slowly like traffic jammed cars. His face comes into view.

I’m cold. I guess I should do something. Say something maybe. Missed it. The chance has come and gone.

We sit in silence for a while. Everything has changed.

‘Cold,’ I say, trying to get things moving, in my head.

‘Oh yes. It is a little chilly.’ He turns and nods to someone. He smiles. I lift my head to see who he’s looking at, but by the time I do they’re gone.

Where am I? A hospital. I guess.

‘How’s it all feeling?’ says the man.

‘Unsure,’ I say.

‘You’re unsure how you feel? Or you feel unsure?’

‘The second one.’

‘That’s understandable. Any pain?’

‘A little in the head.’

‘Also understandable, that’s just swelling in the cranium.’

‘What’s the… chrysanthemum?’

‘It’s a flower that blooms in Autumn, but that’s not important right now. Your mental lexicon is still recovering, which I’d expect. Say after me, cranium.’

‘Cramiun.’

‘Good. Your skull. Your head. We had to get in there a little.’

‘In there?’

‘Yes, we had to remove the bone flap. But we replaced it. Everything went reasonably well.’

‘Re… Re… Re… Re… Reasonably?’

‘Well… your sort of accident isn’t the sort of thing one always recovers from. But things are looking up.’

I’m putting it all together again. The bus. The shattered glass. The man running towards me. A man I know?

… Doreen? … Liam … Loreen?

‘I assume you haven’t been told what’s happened to you then?’

I assume I haven’t as well.

I drifted in and out. Of the light and the grey. I don’t know what was a dream and what was… whatever this is. I’ve seen many faces hover over me. I remember being moved, I think. One second I would be one place. The next, the ceiling would tell me something else.

I realise I have no concept of how long I’ve been here. It could be weeks. Months. Longer.

‘How long?’ I say.

‘How long what?’

I struggle with the structure of the question. I feel my eyes rolling around in my head. With each tiny movement, there’s a crack of pain somewhere deep inside my thinking organ.

My eyes begin to water as I strain to process the question, to hold onto my thoughts. I make some sounds from deep within me. I breathe deep, trying to speak, but I can’t. Instead. I cry.

My nose runs. Hot tears roll down my cheeks. Big old-fashioned sobs, despite myself. I don’t feel like crying. And yet, I am crying. Every breath shudders with effort between my lungs and my mouth. I feel like a puppet controlled by an inebriate puppeteer.

My hands scramble around for a tissue. There is one next to me but it takes me an age to drag it out from its cell.

He waits, watching. Patient.

‘Tom? You asked me… how long?’

‘How long… from then… till now?’

‘Today is Sunday, you sustained the injury on Friday.’

It seems impossible. If he’d said I’d been here a year, or two, I’d have believed him. My muscles feel brown and dappled. I grapple with the controls like a madman, a blind pilot. I must be older. Two days? They have to be lying. But to what end?

It’s then that I notice there is someone else in the room, to my left. My neck turns so my head can look at him. He looks back. His face is difficult to read. He looks apprehensive. I look away and he does the same. Then I look back at him and he looks me in the eye. He says nothing. Just analyses me. He must be some underling. He’s younger than the other man. Although I couldn’t say how old the man in front of me is. My brain isn’t giving me all the answers I need yet. His voice interrupts us as I go to look at the silent man for a third time.

‘Yes, it may seem longer. That can happen. Would you say it seems longer?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘That’s interesting.’

He writes that down. Out of my periphery I analyse the silent man. He faces the doctor, too, not moving a muscle.

‘Do you know what happened to you, Tom?’

The question lingers in the air…

The bus. The shattered glass. The blood. The shouts. People with their phones out. I crawl across the road. I feel sick. No pain. But I feel faint. I hear a song from a nearby car radio. The man runs towards me.

‘I… I… had… a stroke?’

‘Hmm. Interesting.’

He writes that down. Then scratches his nose. He turns as a nurse comes into the room and hands me a glass of water and a pill.

I take it off her. Steadily. I look at my hand and try to will it to do my bidding. I put the pill in my mouth and force the water down the dry passage of my throat. I stare back at my hand and order it to give the nurse back the glass. When I turn back to the doctor he is checking his watch. His eyes meet mine and he smiles, sunnily, full beam.

‘Now, how long would you say that took? That little sequence of taking your pill and drinking your water.’

Is this a trick question? What is their game?

‘Ten… twenty… ten… seconds?’

He glances to the nurse.

‘That took six and half minutes. But don’t worry. I’m confident things will get easier.’

He comes a bit closer now. The man next to me does, too. It’s become intimate.

‘Tom. You were shot. In your head. Do you understand?’

I want to laugh. So I do. Ha ha ha ha ha.

There’s no gap between think and do. Ha ha ha ha ha.

The tears roll down my face again. The others stay stock still. As I laugh and cry. I don’t know why I do either of these things. My feelings fire off in all directions like stray sparks. I laugh, I wail.

Then I stop. I look at the nurse. Then at him.

‘No. I wasn’t shot. I can’t have been. It didn’t hurt. I’m alive.’

He breathes in, cautious, unsure how to put this.

‘The brain has no pain receptors. The nerves in your skin can’t react fast enough to register impact. A little bullet, at that speed… It just went in.’

‘And out…’

‘Err… no. It just went in.’

‘And you got it out?’

‘No. My God, no. Much too dangerous to move it, I’m afraid. It’s still in there, in three pieces. But don’t worry, it doesn’t pose you any danger. Think of it as a souvenir.’

He pops out a one-breath laugh and turns to the nurse for support but she doesn’t join in. When I straighten up, so does the silent man. Copying my body language is supposed to make me feel comfortable, I suppose. But he is eerie.

‘So,’ says the doctor, ‘all your vital signs are remarkably good. Another twenty-four hours of monitoring and tests, then, all being well, you’ll move from intensive care to a general ward for recovery. Then you’ll spend some time in the rehab unit, and that’ll give us an idea of what outpatient care you’ll need after we discharge you. Sound good?’

My breath rattles. I want to say things but thoughts rush at me. I grasp at consonants. I try a ‘p’, an ‘m’, an ‘n’. Then back to a ‘p’. He comes closer and puts a hand on me. I am calmed.

‘But I was shot… in the head?’ I murmur. I hear myself. I sound like a malnourished tracing.

‘Yes. But I’m confident you won’t be here too long. I think you’ll walk with a limp for a good long while and certainly a lot slower than before, for now. And so will your speech be. Slower, I mean. But you should be… next to normal, in no time. Better than normal perhaps. I look forward to seeing how it all pans out.’

He looks at me, smiling indulgently. I take a note of his features. Ogling them for what is probably five or so minutes.

He has a beard. He has small brown eyes. He is half bald. He is lightly tanned. He has soft grey hair. He has a striped blue shirt. It has a purple ink stain on it.

‘Somebody… shot me?’

‘It would appear so, yes. Now, all I’d ask of you is to take it slow. I will be with you throughout this process. You certainly don’t have to go back to work for a good long while yet. And they’ll absolutely look after you well, financially speaking, so you don’t need to worry about any of that. You were injured on duty, you’re getting the best treatment money can buy. In my opinion, ha! You shouldn’t want for anything while you recuperate. If there are abnormalities – and considering the places the bullet debris has come to rest in, there may be abnormalities – I’ll be with you every step of the way. We’re going to handle those… differences… together.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Why am I not dead again? Why is my head still on my shoulders? What was I shot with?’

‘Well. A gun. A sub machine gun, I’d say. But just once, so that’s good.’

‘In… in… war… in films… in war… the head means… dead.’

He’s excited by this, standing and taking his pen in his hand to gesticulate with.

‘Good question. Good cognitive reasoning. Now, I can only tell you that when you’ve seen people shot in World War whatever, or Kill whoever, or The Murder of Whichshit, the science is somewhat… bollocks. Sorry! Poppy cock, I mean to say. You do often die with a shot to the head. Very, very often. But a bullet wouldn’t really have the momentum to knock your head much to the side let alone blow it off its shoulders. Think of it this way, if a gunshot were powerful enough to throw your head back significantly, the momentum of firing it would throw the gunman back violently, too. And that’s not the sort of device that would be very viable on the mass market. What a gun is, is a compact handheld product made to eject sleek aerodynamic discharges that glide smoothly into flesh. So along with the shock and speed of the event and the way the device is engineered, of course you wouldn’t feel a thing. Which is a bit of a result in a way, isn’t it?’

I’m not sure how to feel about this statement at this point.

‘Ask us one more question for today, please. It’s very good for you to ask questions. It’s a useful process. You’re doing very well, Mr Mondrian.’

‘Will… I… get… back to normal? Normal normal? Absolute normal?’

The nurse averts her gaze. The cold room seems to get colder. He clicks his pen a couple of times and then comes further towards me, his face so calming. His rich voice echoing as if it falls all around me. He has me. I am his captive audience.

‘The brain is an incredible thing. It has helped us to achieve amazing feats. Like building aeroplanes. Performing complicated long division in our heads. Constructing the internet. So on, so forth. But do we really know how it works? Not really. I certainly don’t and I’m one of Britain’s top neurologists. Ha.’

He looks at the nurse. No laughs again. But I like him. I’m usually good for a pity laugh, but humour is difficult to muster at the moment. The cues are difficult to pick up.

I laugh, a good minute too late. The room nods patronisingly. Then the Doctor steps in again to save me.

‘So, in short, to say “I don’t know what’s going to happen” is an understatement. I mean it’s an understatement to say it’s an understatement. I mean I don’t have a single clue. I don’t even know if I don’t know! But I’ll tell you what. Whatever your brain throws at us, we’ll just work it out. Sound like a plan? It’s fair to say it’s already making adjustments.’

‘Adjustments?’

‘Yes. Adjustments. It’s an incredible machine. It will adapt. It has plasticity. It will learn to work in a different way. That’s what it does. That’s the one thing we do know. So… will you get back to normal?… No, I shouldn’t think so, no. Is normal something to be desired? To some people, yes. Is normal changing monthly and are you going to think in a completely, wonderfully, excitingly, unique way? Yes. I think so, yes. And. Whatever. Happens. We’re going to tackle it together.’

He claps his hands lightly.

‘Does that sound good, Tom?’

‘Yes. You are. You are. You are?’

‘Jeffrey Ryans. We have met before but don’t worry. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. No need to feel gauche. Any more questions?’

‘One.’

‘Fire away.’

I collect myself. Trying not to turn to the man. But I have to ask.

‘Who… who… who is… this man sitting next to me?’

‘Sorry, who?’ Jeffrey says.

‘Him,’ I say, pointing to the reserved gentleman on my left.

‘Ah. Now that is interesting.’

‘What?’ I say.

‘You don’t recognise him?’

My eyebrows furrow. I squint. I try to conjure something.

‘No. Should I?’

Dead air. The nurse’s face has collapsed.

Ryans smiles, a mixture of amusement and compassion.

‘Well. Tom. That’s you.’

I don’t understand this concept. I look at him pleadingly. He speaks again.

‘That’s a mirror, Tom. You see its edges? There?’

I look back at the face in the frame. No memories of this man. Nothing. Not a flicker. I shake my head. The silent man shakes his head, too. I don’t trust him. I turn away, then back quickly, trying to catch him out.

I turn back to the Doctor. I shake my head again.

He folds his arms. He understands.

I open my mouth.

‘Blossom,’ I say. ‘Fruits. Fucking fuck! Blossom. Bollocks. I mean… blossom. Argh!’

‘Because it’s bigger than you,

But you’re lighting a fuse

And you’re playing to lose

Because it’s bigger than you’

‘Tom? Tom? Sorry. Tom? Tom?’

‘Yes,’ I respond straight away.

‘You’ll be stationed with PCSO Bartu?’ says the man dressed as a policeman.

I turn to him and nod. He smiles back. Nicely. Nice guy.

‘Great. That’s great. Do I… Do I…’

The room waits for me to find my thought. Giving me supportive eyes.

‘Do I… have to have… a partner? I’ll… be okay. On my own, you know.’

The others look to the main man. He sucks in his bottom lip and wets it. His eyes flicker to the left. Then to the right. To the other six people seated either side of us in the locker room. Some men. Some women.

‘We’re going to put you with Bartu. Just for now. It’s standard procedure for anyone who’s had extended time off. Even if it’s only three months.’

No, it’s not. I’ve had time on my hands. I’ve been filling in any gaps of knowledge on all sorts of areas but particularly police procedure and neurology. I want to understand what’s happening to me and what I’m getting myself into. Above all, I want to be aware of those two things. So I’ve been researching. Voraciously. Every day, with a fire and will I’ve never had before. I use a program that reads to me. But I always read the first three words myself, I’m rigorous about that, even if it takes an hour. Then I let the voice take over and we learn together.

‘You don’t need to go on your bike either, until you’re ready. So Bartu will be keeping fit with you on foot or if you need it you also have access to a vehicle.’

‘I’ll drive. Let me drive!’ I shout.

They recoil a bit. No sudden movements. I remind myself. It makes the ‘normals’ tense.

‘I can drive,’ I say. Softly. Watering myself down for the room.

I’m now what’s called Preternaturally Sensitive. It means my inhibitions have receded due to injury to my frontal lobe. So if I want to say or do something, I usually do it.

You won’t find me shouting out swear words as with Verbal Tourette’s, which is a turning off of inhibitions as well as an enlarged tic-like propensity to say what shouldn’t be said. It’s just a new facet of my character. Not that I am psychiatrically different, as such. No, like Tourette’s, it’s not a psychiatric issue, but rather a neurobiological one of a hyperphysiological sort. Which is quite different. With me? Good.

This replacement of inhibition with drive arrived as if by magic. Soon after my first couple of meetings with Dr Ryans, I wanted out of there. Away from the hospital’s warm arms and succour. Not in a fearful way, I just had things to do. I felt charged. Like someone had put a new kind of battery in me.

After I eventually made it out, when they were satisfied that I could do things like document distinct memories and walk (not perfectly, I tend to drag my left foot more than I pick it up and good lord I’m not ready to ride a bike yet) I started devouring knowledge in a way I’d never even considered before the bullet. Doctor Ryans says I merely wanted to make up for lost time, to test my consciousness and attention span to see how much more it could do for me. To see whether, if I tried hard enough each day, if I laboured then slept and then woke and then laboured again, each sleep could take me closer to home. To the mind I used to have. That’s how Ryans put it, but I wouldn’t say it was that. I didn’t want to be the same as I was before. I wanted to be better. I felt somehow I already was.

‘Pre-bullet’ I was directionless. ‘Post-bullet’ I had a lust for the world. I started to feel sorry for the ‘pre-bullet’ me. Listless. An apathetic approach to the possibilities of the day. I was motivationally shambolic. ‘Post-bullet’ me could have him for breakfast.

The physio would come each morning. We would work. Then I would sit in front of my computer and use the programme to find gaps in my knowledge. Once my shopping was delivered I would make myself a new recipe I had found online that’d intrigued me.

I would learn more.

I would do my exercises.

I would defecate perfectly.

I would write a poem, or lullaby, or do a pencil drawing.

I would get headaches and cramps and fears.

I would ignore them.

I would learn more. Then I’d sleep.

I sleep less. I found I didn’t need as many revitalising hours as I had previously indulged in. Getting up before sunrise was now a regular thing. I like waking in the dark. It meant I could engender a routine. I could warm up before physio and make myself something with perfect nutritional value for breakfast.

I learnt about health and the body obsessively.

Did you know that a stitch when you run is caused by your diaphragm? It gets pulled around when you jog, so if it hurts take a slower, more even pace and longer smoother breaths.

Did you know that if your food wasn’t mixed with your saliva then you wouldn’t be able to taste it?

Did you know the average person falls asleep in 7 minutes?

Did you know that stewardesses is the longest word you can type using only your left hand when utilising a standard keyboard in the correct manner?

Did you know 8% of people have an extra rib?

I used to be an eight hours a night man or I was useless. I need only five and half now and they serve me better than my sleep ever did before. In my waking hours I feel more awake than I ever have.

I couldn’t read, my brain wasn’t letting me yet. But I could focus on the little things and block out the distracting thoughts. In short, I could listen like a motherfucker. Pardon my French. Lack of inhibitive reflex plus mild aphasia there: ‘impaired ability to speak the appropriate word for the scenario, or the one your brain is searching for.’ In other words, I send for a good formal noun, in this case ‘genius’, but by the time it comes down the chute some joker has switched it for ‘motherfucker.’ Apologies again.

I longed for things passionately, like I never had before.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to watch movies and fully understand them.

I wanted to climb remote exotic mountains.

I wanted mystery and love and mysterious love.

I wanted to be able to drive.

‘For the moment, it’s best if you don’t drive. Order from on high. Probably an insurance thing, something like that.’

I know he’s lying but I appreciate his tact. He has an upright stance. He has initiative. Gumption. I like him. I give him a thumbs-up.

A crease in his face tells me he’s not sure whether this gesture is an ironic manoeuvre. Little does he know I don’t have anywhere near the outward mental processing speed required for irony yet.

He moves on and says some more things with his mouth. I take my cheat pad out of my pocket and write. You see, I can still write, as the part of my brain that turns thoughts into symbols works fine, but curiously the bit that interprets those symbols back into words? Different matter. Pun intended.

So I know I won’t be able to read this back but the act of writing it down helps me commit it to memory. I observe. The others peer at me but I block them out with ease, with my genius focus. I write:

Upright stance. Gumption. Fair and balding. Wire frame circular glasses. Highly Caucasian.

On the upper left of his jacket, where his breast would be, are some symbols. A word I think. It starts with an L.

L. E. Then one I can’t make out, then an I, and it ends with another E. The process takes a while and my straining to establish the word at this point has become a spectacle, which everyone is pretending manfully not to notice.

LE_I_E. Lee? Can I call him Lee? Leon. Lean? Levine? Levine! I’ve heard that somewhere before. Ah. Of course. Levine. So that’s Levine. I remember him. I think he’s recently been promoted.

Levine. Or Upright-Gumption-Bald-Glasses-White-Face. As I will call him. In my mind.

I turn and see another man to my right, close to my head. He holds out his hand, luckily, because that means he might whisper his name. I may have seen him before, it’s quite possible. I’ll probably remember him. Because, you see, it’s not the remembering exactly I struggle with. No, it’s not that, it’s another thing.

‘Hey. I’m Emre Bartu. Good to meet you,’ he says with a wink.

Yes. He’ll do. I keep out my cheat sheet and start to write.

Bouncy. Kind. Black hair. Deep voice. Brown face.

I realise I haven’t said anything back to him. As is certainly customary. I think I just locked eyes with him and started writing.

Multi-tasking is hard so I have to stop for a second to mutter something pleasant-sounding to him.

‘I’m Tom Mondrian. Can you stay still please? I’m looking at your head.’

He smiles and does so. He nods, his eyes flicker to the side, which indicates he’s a bit confused by all this. Then he holds his pose like he’s having his school photo taken.

A thought hits me from nowhere that someone once said he was Turkish. I don’t know where I got that from but my mind has offered it to me as useful information so it’s best to follow it up.

‘You’re a Turkey,’ I say.

‘What mate?’ he says.

‘Sorry. I mean. You’re a Turkey.’

‘What?’

‘Sorry. Shit. I mean. You’re a Turkey. Ahhh,’ I shout, frustrated. Damn aphasia.

The room looks up for a second and I hold up my hand to apologise. They go back to talking about their beat, what they have to do that day, that kind of thing.

‘Sorry. You’re a Turkey. Shit! You’re… Turkish?’ I bend my voice at the last minute, it had taken so long to splutter it into the world I’d forgotten that it was supposed to be a question.

‘Yes, mate. That’s right.’ We nod. Agreeing with each other.

I’m pleased with this. I run the words over in my head.

This word pattern forms what is called a Feature by Feature Recognition Strategy. I slip the note back in my pocket.

The physio came to me every day but I had to go and see Dr Ryans twice a week. The journey itself was a good test and I’m sure he was aware of that. We went through a series of facial recognition exercises as that was his biggest area of interest. It was discovered I had prosopagnosia – an inability to recognise faces. Which is a particularly cruel word if you also have trouble reading.

We talked through strategies and the face cheat sheet was certainly the best. By far the most disquieting side effect of my accident is the inability to recognise my own face. Typically, Ryans also had a few methods to deal with this frightening daily occurrence – the part where I wake and scream because I don’t know who the man in my mirror is.

‘It’s suggested that success can be achieved by making your own image as distinct and memorable as possible. Prosopagnosiacs often choose to grow characteristic facial hair. But what works best, in fact, is when this is coupled with headwear, perhaps a bandanna or…’ He pauses, catching me mulling this over.

‘No offence, Jeff, but as well as having all my brain disorders I’d rather not dress like Hulk Hogan.’

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