The sleep doctor opens up his briefcase and asks me about my sleepwalking. I tell him how I used to have to safety pin my pajamas on to stop myself undressing in the night. I tell him about the time I woke up with a tiny green apple in my bed, a kind of tiny green apple that can’t be bought in a shop but can only be scrumped prematurely off a tree, though there were no apple trees for miles. It didn’t have a bite out of it, though I do occasionally find the remains of attempted and half- or entirely uneaten meals in a disastrously messy kitchen: elaborate salads with sundried tomatoes, olives, and cheese, with balsamic vinegar footprints leading back to my bedroom. I tell him about the time my boyfriend woke up because he heard scratching noises in the bedroom, which the bedside lamp revealed to be his girlfriend (me) attempting to tear posters off the walls in the dark with a clawed hand and a snarl. He said, deliriously, “What… what are you doing? Get back in bed…” and trailed off as he watched me flee the room and open the front door, making to escape the flat and run through the streets of Brixton on a freezing cold February 2am, wearing nothing but black business socks and a terrifying expression. I’m apparently physically stronger in my sleep and have dished out the occasional black eye to myself and to others, but he somehow managed to bundle me into the bathroom and keep me locked there until I came to: cold, bewildered and remembering nothing. I’ve deadlocked my front door ever since.