My eldest daughter, Ianthe, and I were sitting in the quiet, window-less waiting room in Sydney, for me to be seen by the neurologist for my yearly check up, to see how I was going with my Alzheimer’s Disease, how the medications were affecting me, and whether there were any functional or mood changes that I had noticed in myself.

It was cool inside and there was very little noise, apart from the clack, clack, clack of the receptionists’ keypads, and the rustling of magazine pages being idly turned. It was May 1998, and outside Sydney bustled busily in the sunshine of a warm autumn day.

I tried to focus on the article in the nature magazine before me, but inside I was bubbling over with excitement. I wanted to rush in and shout ‘I’m better!’ – but Ianthe, bless her soul, had been able to restrain me and suggest that perhaps if I did this the neurologist would definitely think I had ‘lost it’ and was declining further into my dementia.